


On This Planet Spinning

by jumpthisship



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: (all listed pairings are equally main pairings), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Drama, M/M, Romance, Sad times, also a very lovely plant, mature themes, poor mental health, some possibly disturbing imagery, threat of death, very brief mentions of suicidal ideation(?), violence/injury, warnings include:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 139,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpthisship/pseuds/jumpthisship
Summary: Over a century after meteors destroyed Earth, making the surface uninhabitable, communities are returning from their bunkers and attempting to recolonize the planet. But resources are scarce, tensions are high, and neighbouring communities X-22 and Q-16 are fighting tooth and nail over the Valley, a rare patch of fertile land. Add to that a controversial group of humans with special abilities, and people will start to realize it's not the coming winter that's humanity's biggest obstacle—it's humanity itself. But that doesn't mean hope doesn't exist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HERE IT IS!! The fic I've been working on since August. It is my baby, please be kind to it. Updates will be 3 times a week! (Not sure about the days yet...maybe Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?) If anyone has specific concerns about warnings, feel free to message me privately and I'll answer any questions! :D [MANY MANY thanks to my betas and test-readers: Bee, Lisa, Line, Cata, and Kay <333 I love you guys] Fic title is from Back To Earth by Steve Aoki, which is bizarrely relevant.

In a ramshackle building in Community Q-16, just south of Emergency Bunker West Q-16, surrounded by bits of scrap metal and rusting screws and makeshift tools, Chanyeol looks at the dismantled blaster in front of him and says, “Well, shit.”

 

It’s not that his job as a Fixer is impossible, it’s just that—no, sometimes it’s impossible. Like right now, staring at the innards of a high-tech piece of weaponry, knowing that the problem lies within the, uh, the energy...part. The part that does the...the creating of energy. Chanyeol calls it the fusion reactor, partly because it sounds cool, but mostly because he has no idea what it is. 

 

See, this is the problem. He has no idea what anything is. This is what happens when your only Fixer is a self-trained barely-adult, who learned everything he knows about mechanics by taking things apart and putting them back together without accidentally killing himself. 

 

“See here,” he says to his deaf and mute audience of one, gesturing to what was once a working blaster. “The problem _could_ be here, in the Magnety Section. The magnets are possibly no longer doing their job. See, see, the magnets alternate between positive and negative charges, and that does, uh, something. To the energy. When it passes through, obviously. But it _appears_ that one of them is no longer magnety. Or at least that’s my best guess. But I don’t know which one, or whether it’s a negative or positive one. And even if I did, where would I find another magnet without ripping open someone else’s blaster? Also, do I dare tear out these magnets, which are probably very carefully placed, and then try to put them back in later and hope nothing explodes? Or do I just give it up as a lost cause and save these parts for a more fixable blaster?” 

 

He stares at the blaster parts with a frown, then leans in to poke at the fusion reactor carefully, noticing a hairline crack. Something viciously shocks his grease-stained finger. “Fuck! Ow, shit, fucking fuck. _Fuck._ ” He sticks his buzzing finger in his mouth, grimacing as sludgy oil touches his tongue. Then, guiltily, he glances up at his audience. “I’m sorry. I should watch my language around young leaves.”

 

On the other side of his work desk, lounging on his windowsill, a small, potted plant flutters a leaf at him in the breeze coming in through the window. Chanyeol assumes this is forgiveness. 

 

“Well, maybe the problem isn’t in the magnets after all,” Chanyeol mutters, turning back to his work. “But now I’m too scared to touch anything in case it’s gonna shock me again.”

 

“Talking to plants again, Chanyeol?” an amused voice says from the doorway to Chanyeol’s workshop. 

 

Chanyeol turns to see Yifan standing with his hip cocked against the doorframe, smirking. “Laugh all you want, but she’s a better roommate than you are,” Chanyeol quips. 

 

Yifan snorts. “How’s the fixing going, Fixer?”

 

“Not as successfully as my other job,” Chanyeol sighs, stretching stiff limbs. “Think I could be transferred to full-time Defense instead? I’d rather take Sergeant’s yelling all day than face my failures in here.”

 

“We’ve got lots of soldiers. Only got one Fixer,” Yifan points out. 

 

Chanyeol sighs again, more loudly. “This is the problem. People expect me to actually be good at my job when I’m the only one who does it. I’m shit at my own specialty.”

 

“You’re not shit,” Yifan says. “The community appreciates anything you can do to help. You’re just...undertrained.”

 

“You can say that again,” Chanyeol groans. He knows Q-16 is desperate to keep as many of their electronics and gadgets in working order as possible. Most of their machinery and weaponry is on the brink of failing every day. But it’s hard to keep things running when Chanyeol’s knowledge of electricity is rudimentary at best, he only knows how engines work in terms of _this goes here and that goes there_ , and everything he does is trial and error. Yifan said _undertrained_ , but what he really meant was _un_ trained. Sure, Chanyeol has an instinctive way with mechanics; he’s intuitive and eager to learn; he’s picked up a fair bit of knowledge from his own curious exploration; he’s half-decent at finding out what the problem is and how to fix it. But he honestly has no idea what the fuck he’s doing at least 50% of the time. And besides that, he’s depressingly short on resources, including reliable, working tools. 

 

“But I agree that you could use more time training with us lowly soldiers,” Yifan relents, palming the blaster attached to his hip. “We’re learning maneuvers that you’re going to have absolutely no clue about.”

 

Chanyeol groans. “When am I supposed to sleep? I can’t keep pulling double shifts like this.”

 

“You have two very important jobs,” Yifan says with a shrug. “We can’t afford to lose either.”

 

It’s the truth. Up until a few months ago, the people of Q-16 wouldn’t have considered fighting a job at all. It was something they just didn’t do. Couldn’t, when they were inside the bunkers. But a lot has changed since then. They need soldiers now. Military leaders. The community has risen to the task admirably, but it’s still strange for many of them.

 

“Anyway, Yeol. I came to fetch you for evening meal. If you don’t hurry, you’ll get stuck with scraps again. You may be forced to eat your precious plant.”

 

Chanyeol gasps, mock offended. “How dare you imply that I would ever do such a thing. Especially where she can hear you.”

 

Yifan rolls his eyes, amused. “I honestly don’t get why you’re so obsessed with that thing. It’s not even a pretty plant.”

 

Chanyeol turns to look at his little potted plant, reaching out to touch tender green leaves with a gentle, calloused fingertip. “She doesn’t have to be pretty. It’s a symbolic thing.” He bites his lip, then says, “When I’m stuck in here for hours, pulling my hair out over things I can’t fix and starting to get really hopeless, she reminds me that we’re moving forward. It’s slow going, but we’re regrowing. You know?”

 

When he turns around again, Yifan is shrugging. “Why this plant, though? There’s plenty of plants outside. Edible ones.”

 

Now it’s Chanyeol’s turn to roll his eyes. Yifan has never been known for his sensitivity. “I got this seed as a gift,” he says. “So it’s a special plant.”

 

“As a gift from who?” 

 

Chanyeol is forced to shrug. “Some kid I knew back during the first Surfacing. He was from one of the other communities.” 

 

“Oooo, forbidden romance?” Yifan grins. 

 

Chanyeol snorts. “We were literally like 7. And besides, you know we weren’t fighting back then.” 

 

Yifan hums. “Yeah. That’s sure changed.” 

 

“We’re more desperate now. And more divided.” Chanyeol shrugs. “Anyway. I’ve saved it for this long and I wasn’t sure if it’d grow. So you better take care of her if anything ever happens to me.” He narrows his eyes at his best friend, threatening. 

 

Yifan scoffs. “Yeah yeah. I’ll look after your delicate orphan child. Anyway, I’m serious, let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

 

“You go ahead,” Chanyeol says, swinging around to look at his work desk. “I’ll clean up here and then join you.”

 

“Your loss,” Yifan says, but turns without another word to head for the community center—a reimagining of their old bunker center, where people used to gather for meals and events. 

 

Chanyeol immediately starts piecing the blaster in front of him back together, knowing he’ll never be able to do it if he waits until the next day and forgets how he took it apart. He pauses in the middle, though, gaze catching on his little plant, and reaches out to touch a pale green leaf again. He thinks hard about it, tries to remember the boy who gave him the seed, all those years ago. He can barely remember anything. Small hands. A scared smile. A whispered goodbye. 

 

Well. It doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t recognize him now anyway.

 

***

 

 In the same community, maybe a kilometer south of Chanyeol’s workshop, Baekhyun works away at a rocky patch of land, hacking at the weeds poking through the dry soil. God, he hates fieldwork. He hates it with every fiber of his being. There is no job he thinks he would like less than he likes weeding and planting and watering and pruning and harvesting. The sun beats down on his red, raw skin relentlessly, dry air scorches his throat, sweat cools and itches under his clothes, blisters burst on his palm, bugs bite at his skin—those fuckers survived the apocalypse, _of course_ —and Baekhyun hasn’t seen or talked to anyone in hours. He wants to scream. 

 

He’s been a Grower for three months, and he thinks he’ll go insane if he has to stay at this job any longer. 

 

“Baekhyun!” a voice calls, and Baekhyun pauses that thought. “Mealtime!”

 

“Oh, thank god,” Baekhyun says, tossing his hoe onto the ground like it’s on fire. 

 

“Pick up your tools, Grower! We can’t afford for it to rust!”

 

Baekhyun sneers. It’s not like it rains enough for their metal tools to start rusting, anyway. Regardless, he picks the hoe back up, cocking it over his shoulder and starting the trek back to the community center. He doesn’t bother rushing. The long walk means he’ll get the leftovers no matter how much he hurries. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Baekhyun is putting his hoe away in the storage shed, which threatens every day to give up and collapse, and then he makes his way through crumbling streets and alleys to the community center to get his meal tray. They hadn’t been able to salvage a whole lot from the bunkers, but they’d managed to bring a billion plastic trays, somehow. 

 

He gets his food—cold and scraped from the bottoms of pots—and carries it to the table where his friends sit together, most of them already finished eating. “Comrades,” he says, nodding to Chanyeol and Yifan. “Builder,” he adds, pointing his spoon at Luhan. 

 

“I think you can only call us comrades if you’re also a soldier,” Chanyeol says with a half grin. “Which you’re not.”

 

Baekhyun wrinkles his nose, spooning zucchini and cabbage stew into his mouth. “It’s not for lack of trying,” he huffs. 

 

“Oh, god, is Baekhyun going to go on a job rant again?” Yifan asks dryly. 

 

Baekhyun smacks his spoon against his tray. “It’s the worst job! You guys don’t understand, you got _good_ jobs.”

 

“Just because _you_ want to be fighting people all the time doesn’t mean everyone does. Or that it’s a ‘good job,’” Yifan says. 

 

“But it _is_ , though. It’s a _useful_ job. You’re protecting our land. And our people.”

 

“And you’re cultivating the land they’re fighting to keep,” Luhan says. “Lots of people would say it’s the _most_ useful job. You grew the food we’re eating right now. You’re feeding a starving community.”

 

“You’re bringing dead land back to life,” Chanyeol adds. What an idealist. 

 

“I’m _miserable_ ,” Baekhyun grumps. “Look, I know Growing is an important job. But it’s not _right_ for me. It’s too slow, and too boring, and too _lonely_. I can’t spend all day with nothing but plants for company. I _can’t do it._ ” He stirs his cold stew and pouts. “I want to be fighting with you guys.”

 

“Chanyeol spends most of his time with plants, too, and he loves it,” Yifan points out teasingly. “And Luhan Builds.”

 

“Better than Growing,” Baekhyun mutters. “At least he gets to work with people, and see actual day-to-day progress.”

 

“Why don’t you ask Community Leader to transfer you to Defense Duty?” Luhan asks.

 

“He’s tried it. Several times,” Chanyeol says with a laugh. “Community Leader keeps saying he’s too weak. Wants him on Growing Duty, because he’s so delicate.”

 

“His exact words were _fragile disposition,_ actually,” Baekhyun says, sniffing. “Not that that makes any more sense. Or that it’s true.”

 

“How do you even _remember_ that?” Luhan says. 

 

“It wounded my pride.” Baekhyun places a hand over his heart. 

 

“Be grateful, Little Flower,” Yifan says, leaning back and stretching his arms. “You probably won’t die on _your_ job.”

 

“Unfortunately,” Baekhyun sighs. 

 

“None of us are having tons of fun,” Chanyeol says, frowning at Baekhyun. “You know that.”

 

Baekhyun does. It hasn’t been easy for _any_ of them since Q-16’s second return to Earth’s surface. They’ve all had to learn a lot, quickly, desperate after being stuck in bunkers for so long with failing machinery and depleting food stocks. And no one really understands what’s left, because the plague that ripped through the communities after their first return to the surface had taken down the majority of their trained personnel. They’d been left with a lot of young people and no idea how anything worked. 

 

Baekhyun doesn’t remember it that well—he was quite young, and so sheltered, but he remembers death, and fear, and a hasty retreat back underground once they realized they wouldn’t survive—but it’s affected his life so profoundly. It’s affected them all. He knows Chanyeol is constantly floundering and working too many hours. He knows Yifan fears for his life on a daily basis, unused to putting himself in danger. He knows Luhan works hard, straining muscles in unsafe working conditions, because they don’t have enough standing buildings to house everyone, and half of the ones they do have are on the brink of collapse. Everyone’s rations are too small, their jobs are too hard, their resources are too limited. Everyone is just doing what they can to survive. 

 

But Baekhyun’s not one to let the mood get all dark and broody, so he sighs gustily and says, “You know, I wouldn’t _have_ to spend so much time working as a Grower if we had _sorcerers_ to do the work for us.” 

 

Luhan lifts his eyebrows at him, and Yifan mutters, “You’re gonna get yourself arrested for treason.”

 

“You know why we can’t do that, Baek,” Chanyeol says, frowning at him. 

 

“We have no idea what those freaks can actually do,” Yifan adds. “Just because they say they can heal the earth doesn’t mean they actually can or will.”

 

“Yeah, or else why didn’t they do it earlier, when we were waiting for decades for the earth to heal on its own?” Luhan says. 

 

“They could be lying about their powers, or they could be dangerous, or they could be trying to trick us, or—”

 

“Alright, alright,” Baekhyun cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Relax. I was kidding. I forgot we don’t do jokes around here anymore.”

 

“We’re just saying, Baek,” Yifan says. “Q-16 made the decision not to ally ourselves with paranormals—or with paranormal-allied communities—for a reason.”

 

“Our _leader_ made the decision,” Baekhyun says. “And just because he says all those things doesn’t make them automatically true. Paranoid bastard.”

 

Luhan looks around furtively. “You _really_ want to get arrested, don’t you.” He grins slightly; Luhan’s always been the most interesting friend. 

 

Baekhyun scoffs bitterly. “Please, take me in! Maybe I’ll make some friends in there.” 

 

“But really,” Chanyeol says. “If paranormals help so much, why are paranormal-allied communities still fighting us for arable land? You’d think fucking X-22 would just give up and let us have the Valley if they were so well off. But they’re still fighting us tooth and nail for it.”

 

“Suspicious,” Luhan agrees, still looking amused. “I love a good conspiracy theory.”

 

“You guys are seriously going to get us in trouble,” Yifan says with a frown. 

 

“Plus you’re taking my joke way too seriously,” Baekhyun says. “What a bunch of downers.”

 

“War isn’t a joke,” Chanyeol says. 

 

“Not when you have no sense of humour,” Baekhyun mutters. “Someone tell a funny story. I haven’t laughed in 24 hours.”

 

“Jongdae from Q-17 got caught imitating the Foreman and had to run laps during midday meal,” Luhan says, grinning. “And then got caught repeating the imitation to some of the other Builders and had to run _more_ laps.”

 

Baekhyun snorts. He knows Community Leader had been worried about the small alliance group from Bunker West Q-17—a mere two kilometers north of Q-16—not fitting into the community well, being vastly outnumbered after the plague had killed all but 36 of the other bunker’s inhabitants. But from what Baekhyun has seen, the worry had been fruitless. 

 

“I caught Chanyeol talking to his plant on the job again,” Yifan adds. “Did you know it’s a _she?_ ” 

 

“Hey!” Chanyeol protests, and Baekhyun laughs. Chanyeol flails as he tries to hit Yifan with his dirty spoon, and ends up nearly falling out of his seat, and Baekhyun laughs harder. He laughs loud enough to draw stares, but he doesn’t care. 

 

Q-16 could use a little more laughter in their lives. They have so little else to maintain their will to keep going.

 

***

 

 Several kilometers west of Q-16, across the Dead Zone and past patches of struggling fields, in Community X-22 Delta, Jongin stands in front of Community Leader Boa’s home-slash-office, face red and hot. 

 

“Why do you need _me_ , though?” asks the man standing across from him, arms crossed. “Why can’t you do your...magic voodoo stuff, on your own?”

 

“It’s not voodoo,” Jongin says, scratching the rash on his wrist. It’s one of the few things he’d be able to heal on his own, if he wasn’t so stressed out all the time. “It’s just. I’m. I’m just a sorcerer. I can’t do anything by myself.”

 

His small audience stares back at him silently, and Jongin feels himself heat up again, wishing his mentors were here with him. But they’re not, so he has to do this himself. 

 

Jongin sighs, tries to gather his thoughts. He’s already explained this several times, but he knows he’s not doing a good job of it. “As a sorcerer, I’m capable of, um, sensing the earth’s energy, right? I can just. I can _feel_ it. Where there’s energy in the ground, and in plants, and stuff. There’s pockets of it all over the place. Well. In some places. That’s the, the earth’s life force. Right? That’s how it regrows. There’s energy there, and the energy goes into plants and soil and...yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sighs. “I can sense that. And I can...draw it into myself, and push it into something else. My body is a vessel for that energy. I can direct energy.”

 

“So why do you need _me_?” the man asks again.

 

“Because I can’t _do_ anything with the energy. All I can do is find it and move it around. But it’s not useful in its raw form. I mean, it is, it’s helping the earth regrow. But we’re trying to speed up that process. That’s what I’m here for. It’s like...think about it like it’s sunlight, right? It’s helpful enough, in its own right. It’s helping the plants grow. But if you wanted to start a fire, you’d need a magnifier. You need to change the form of the sunlight to make it do something that quickly. So the sun is, uh, me. It’s directing energy, er, sunlight, at the earth. But I need something, a magnifier, a _conjurer_ , to transform the energy into something useful. Healing energy, usually. Its simplest form.” Jongin pauses, scratches his neck. “But this metaphor isn’t very good, because with conjurers and sorcerers...well, the conjurer just takes the energy and shapes it. Then I take it back, me being the sorcerer, and I redirect it into wherever we need it. Like plants, or soil. So. Sorcerer finds and directs, conjurer shapes.”

 

“So you’re saying I could be a conjurer,” the man says, looking like he might understand now, but still isn’t impressed. “And why do you think I could do that job?”

 

“I can...feel it?” Jongin says, wincing at the uncertainty in his voice. “It’s hard to explain. A sorcerer and conjurer have to be closely connected to turn energy into something useful and beneficial. It’s not an easy job. There has to be...compatibility. Like, um. It’s like our bodies have the same energy frequency. I guess. If I tried to push raw energy into someone’s body who wasn’t compatible...that would be bad.” Jongin chews on his lip. “We’re compatible. I can feel it.”

 

“You can feel my energy frequency?” the man asks, lifting one sharp eyebrow. 

 

“I told you I can sense energy,” Jongin says, shrinking in on himself. “Every living thing has energy.”

 

“Could you _drain_ my energy?”

 

Jongin’s eyes widen. “I wouldn’t do that! That’s murder!”

 

The man snorts, and Boa sighs at him. “Minseok, you’re being difficult.”

 

“I’m not! I just don’t want to get involved in this freaky magic stuff, and this kid’s trying to tell me I _have_ to.”

 

“I need a conjurer,” Jongin says miserably, shoulders slumping. “I’m useless without one.”

 

“What makes you think I could be a conjurer, anyway?” Minseok asks. “Even if our freaky magical energy frequencies are compatible, I don’t know how to...shape energy, or whatever. I’m _not magic_.” 

 

“You are, though,” Jongin insists. “Both abilities are something you’re born with. Sorcerers almost always have a paranormal parent, usually also a sorcerer. Conjurers can be anyone. It’s...most of it’s intuitive, and possible with practice. But you have to have that spark. And you do.” He lowers his voice, embarrassed. “I can sense it.”

 

“We’re pegging a whole lot on the fact that you can apparently _sense_ things,” Minseok says wryly. “Funny how it’s something you can’t prove.”

 

“But I _can_ sense them!” Jongin protests, aware that it sounds childish, that it makes him sound even younger than he is. “There’s a...a link. I can work with that. I just need you to agree.”

 

Minseok scoffs. “No way. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

 

Jongin sighs and slumps. It’s been this way ever since he joined this community. He’s been here for two months, and this is still the reaction he gets from everyone. The reaction _they_ get. He joined X-22, leaving the safety and familiarity of Delta Group, with Joonmyun and Yixing, as helpers. They wanted to _help_ people, and the Earth. That’s what paranormals are good for. Drawing out and transforming energy, directing it back into the earth, helping things to grow, to flourish. That’s what Joonmyun and Yixing do. But Jongin had no conjurer to partner with, unlike his mentor pair. He’d joined X-22 with the promise that he’d find one among the community’s people. And he had. 

 

But Minseok wants nothing to do with him, of course. Everyone is so distrustful. Although some communities, like X-22, allowed paranormals in to help with the Growing and so on, most of them were still scared of anything to do with magic. Which Jongin can understand, he supposes. People don’t like what is new and different to them. They want to protect what they know and what is safe. Jongin knows all about finding comfort in what is familiar, even if it’s not what is good. And many people lash out in their fear, as he suspects Minseok is doing now. The energy coming off of him has that hint of sourness to it. 

 

It doesn’t help that their timing seemed suspicious. They hadn’t joined the government-run bunkers that had been built in anticipation of the meteors that struck over a century ago. Paranormal groups had built their own, staying hidden as they always had, out of the sight of non-magic humans. But after the second return to the surface—the first return ending quickly after a plague struck, killing many of the older generation who were less equipped to fight off the virus—they’d come out of hiding, knowing the earth needed their abilities in order to regrow and thrive again. 

 

But of course not everyone believed that. It was never that easy. Nothing had been easy. People could say all they wanted about working together to start anew and helping their neighbours, but reality is never so pretty. Communities had formed inside the bunkers, and community was family, and family protected their own. Resources were scarce aboveground as well as below. People were desperate to feed themselves, to find land that could support life. When they found it, they protected it, often to the death. The earth is rebuilding itself, but the people inhabiting it are struggling just to stay alive, and with desperation comes war, and grudges, and the shakiest of alliances, and suspicion. 

 

But Jongin really wants to help. He wants to help heal the earth, and give people hope for a future. But he needs a conjurer if he’s going to be able to do so. 

 

And Minseok is being such a _dick_. 

 

“Minseok, reconsider,” says Boa, turning to the young man with a firm set to her mouth. Few people dare themselves to go against her ‘suggestions.’ “I know this is very new to you, but winter isn’t just a distant threat anymore. Our storerooms are practically bare.”

 

“I know we’re desperate, but if you’re so worried about our food situation that you’re telling me to spend the rest of my life with a 16-year-old, we should be _seriously_ scared.”

 

“I’m 18, and it’s not like you have to _marry_ me,” Jongin grinds out. 

 

Minseok turns to him, looking genuinely surprised. “I don’t?”

 

Jongin blinks back at him. “No? When did I ever say that?”

 

“I don’t know. I thought this whole thing was like, getting magical-married or something. Aren’t the other two…?”

 

“Joonmyun and Yixing? No, definitely not.” Jongin almost laughs. “It’s not _uncommon_ for a sorcerer-conjurer pair to get married, but it’s not a _requirement._ ” 

 

Minseok frowns, looking vaguely embarrassed. “But they’re always, you know. All over each other.”

 

Jongin frowns back. “That’s just the way we _are_. Physical contact is healing. We thought at first that all of you must hate each other, you touch so little.” 

 

“...Oh. Well.” Minseok grimaces. “That still doesn’t mean I want to join your freaky magic crew. I’m perfectly happy as a Builder.”

 

Jongin wants to stomp his foot, but he’s too old for tantrums. He has to be. “We’re not _freaky_.” 

 

“Minseok,” Boa says reproachfully. 

 

“I need to pick up my sister from the Carers’. See you, Freak.” Minseok nods slightly in Jongin’s direction, then turns and walks down the overgrown path towards the community center. 

 

Boa watches him go with a sigh. “He’s hard-headed,” she says. 

 

“I don’t know what to do without a conjurer,” Jongin says, swallowing hard. “He’s the only match I’ve ever found.”

 

“We took you in on the agreement that we’d find you one,” Boa says, looking simultaneously intimidating and encouraging. She’s good at that. “And we will. Minseok might just take some time to come around.” She pauses, then says, “Have you tried his sister?”

 

“Isn’t she like...a baby?” Jongin asks, incredulous. 

 

The community leader laughs softly. “No, his other sister. Seulgi. She’s a soldier.”

 

“Oh. No, she didn’t match. I don’t think it’s hereditary like that.”

 

Boa sighs. “Alright. Well. I’ll speak with his family. Perhaps they can talk some sense into him.”

 

Jongin nods, chewing on his lip. He doesn’t doubt that Boa will eventually be able to talk Minseok into agreeing—no one goes against the community leader for long. Not in a community where obedience is so important to survival. 

 

But that doesn’t mean they’ll ever get along. It doesn’t mean Jongin will ever be able to help. 

 

It doesn’t mean he’ll ever be accepted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N#2: IF ANYONE IS CONFUSED please shoot me a question! I'll answer anything that I think may not be clarified in the future. Find me on twitter (@jump_this_ship), ask.fm (jumpthisship), or tumblr (jumpthisship) or comment below! and pleasepleaseplease let me know what you think! 
> 
> Find a handy-dandy little character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ordb9dNdTtPrrcK3Xi6-zPirH5l8TmE2Mn70ir9A80c/edit?usp=sharing)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character cheat sheet for Chapter 1 [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ordb9dNdTtPrrcK3Xi6-zPirH5l8TmE2Mn70ir9A80c/edit?usp=sharing)

Chanyeol has been tinkering as a way of relieving stress since a young age. He’d been a sensitive kid, and a restless one. His primary caregiver—his biological birthmother—had found quickly that if he didn’t have something to keep himself busy, he’d get overwhelmed and upset easily. By focusing his attention on, say, dismantling something, he could avoid the inevitable sensory overload that so often overwhelmed him in his younger years. 

 

And dismantle things, he did. He’d always been curious, always liked breaking things open to see how they worked. In the beginning, that’s all he did; usually with things that were already broken, taking a screwdriver or a hammer to it to get at the inner workings and then sweeping the whole thing into bins to be recycled. It was relaxing, in a way. Like doing a puzzle. Mechanics always had a straightforward explanation. Gears interlocked, springs wound and released, all of it worked together to produce an effect. Chanyeol liked figuring it out. How each piece fit into the puzzle, to create a whole. Eventually, he started being able to pinpoint why something _wasn’t_ working properly, and being able to fix things and put them back together. That was fun and relaxing, too. 

 

He thinks it might be sad, that he now relieves stress from taking things apart and putting them back together by...taking things apart and putting them back together. But it’s different, when it’s of his own volition. When the outcome won’t affect anyone either way, and he can set his own pace, and just explore a piece of artful mechanics. A new mystery to solve, a new puzzle to piece together. 

 

For the past month, he’s been working on a puzzle box Baekhyun gave him to play around with. There’d been a lot of detritus scattered around the ghost town Q-16 moved into after the second Surfacing, broken electronics and the mangled remains of old tools, and this puzzle box had been among it. A gorgeous piece of work, a cube as wide as Chanyeol’s palm and covered in mysterious engravings and metal designs. The surface has several movable sections, gears and rotating discs and little flaps that open to reveal more symbols or buttons or hollow compartments. It’s wonderfully complex, and Chanyeol is itching to solve the puzzle. 

 

But it’s obvious that it’s no longer working as it should. There are pieces missing, loose springs, rusted cogs. He’ll never be able to figure out how to open it when it’s not even whole. Honestly, he’s not sure if he’ll _ever_ be able to open it. He’s not sure if all the missing pieces will be straightforward. There are tiny holes that he thinks might be keyholes, and he’s not sure if the keys are gone or if he just hasn’t found them yet. The whole thing might be impossible. 

 

But after a full month of polishing tiny bits of metal, painstakingly recreating little gears and fitting them onto pins, cutting and shaping wires to replace missing springs, Chanyeol managed to open one section of one face of the box, revealing yet another corroded puzzle, and the taste of victory had been addictive. He’s been working on the box obsessively ever since that small feat, during every break and every night before bed, whenever he has a chance. It keeps his hands busy and his mind on things other than his failings as a Fixer. It’s fun. He rarely gets to have fun anymore. 

 

That’s what he’s doing on his morning break, when Yifan comes to fetch him for Defense Duty. “Hey, Fixer,” his best friend says, watching idly as Chanyeol painstakingly dabs oil onto a gear that isn’t turning properly. He might have to lift it off and polish it if greasing it doesn’t work. “X-22 is harassing us over the Valley again. Bastards.”

 

Chanyeol groans. “Do you think they’ll ever just let it go?”

 

“Not likely. Not until one of us wins it, and even after that...maybe never.”

 

“God, this is getting so old. We _need_ that land. And we need it more than they do.”

 

Yifan shrugs. “Anyway, suit up. Sergeant wants us all there. Maybe we can scare them off long enough to get some Growers over there to plant.”

 

“Yeah right,” Chanyeol mutters. He flips out the tiny crank hidden in the face of the box and tries twisting it, but it jams almost immediately. He frowns and squints at the connected gears. 

 

“Regardless, they’ve got a big group out today, so we need an even bigger group. Calling all soldiers, part-time included.”

 

Chanyeol sighs, giving up on the puzzle box and straightening his back. “Alright. I’ll be out in fifteen.”

 

“Ten,” Yifan says, then punches him lightly in the shoulder and exits. 

 

Chanyeol sets his box down on his desk and stretches his arms over his head. It’s not even midday yet, and already they’re suiting up for a skirmish. And he’s so _sick_ of skirmishes. They’ve been going on pretty much since day one, ever since they realized that they’d set up their community approximately an equal distance from the Valley—a nutrient-rich patch of land spread around a large, rare fruit tree—as their closest neighbouring community, X-22. When arable land was so scarce and everyone was so desperate to feed their people, they’d go to great lengths to procure such a patch of land. Including to build up an army and fight over it for _months._

 

It’s really just exhausting. Chanyeol is sick to death of it. 

 

He walks to the corner of his workshop and starts pulling his lightweight body armour over his standard community-issued clothes. It’s all simple, rudimentary stuff—there had been no armour in the bunkers underground, so Chanyeol and the others had fashioned makeshift breastplates and bodysuits out of the tough material formerly produced to use in case of radioactivity. Gas masks had been turned into rough helmets, blasters had been salvaged from old stocks and desperately fixed and refixed. Chanyeol has been in charge of putting together crude weapons for months—small grenades, smoke bombs, anything that’ll scare and possibly injure the enemy. In the beginning, Chanyeol had been hesitant to build anything that might take a life. Now, with rations so small and winter approaching, he does what he has to do. 

 

Not that there are usually casualties in these skirmishes with X-22. It’s mostly just a big game of intimidation. They don’t fight by the Valley itself—that’s dangerous, they can’t afford to destroy that land. But in between X-22 and Q-16 lies a stretch of dry, hard, unforgiving land, the Dead Zone, where nothing grows regardless. There, each side has built its trenches, its defenses. Every couple of weeks, sometimes more, both communities take up their positions, blast off a few rounds, do some childish posturing. Occasionally they make a run at the other side’s trenches, in a feeble attempt at offense. The idea is that if they manage to take the other side’s trenches, they’d sort of...win. And with a victory come rights to the Valley. 

 

It’s frustrating and ridiculous, because neither side has the time or resources for their soldiers to stay in the trenches for more than a couple days at a time, so they’re constantly retreating and returning to continue, and they’re stomping pettily on each other’s attempts to farm the Valley in the meantime, and both of them refuse to back down or negotiate, and it’s all a big mess. 

 

The majority of their time in the trenches is spent sitting around and waiting for the other side to make a counterattack or retreat, though, so Chanyeol grabs the puzzle box from his work desk and throws it into his bag with a couple of small tools. Might as well make his time out there worthwhile. 

 

Shouldering his pack, he adjusts his thick bodysuit and lifts his helmet into his arms, looking around his workshop one last time. He suddenly feels much older than his twenty-four years. He feels tired, and discouraged, and pessimistic about the future. He’s surrounded by hopelessly broken machines, desperate people, and weapons made to kill. Living on Earth, among the sunlight and the soil, suddenly feels dark and depressing. 

 

But Chanyeol’s little plant flutters at him from the windowsill, green and simple and pure in its instinctive will to grow and thrive. Chanyeol smiles at it fondly, steps towards his desk and leans over to place a kiss on one tender leaf. Like her, Chanyeol’s people are just doing what they can to survive. It’s what humans do. 

 

 

 

Ten minutes later, he’s sitting with his fellow soldiers on the only vehicle Q-16 possesses, much less has ever seen. Chanyeol made it, back when they’d first started this war with X-22. He’d read about cars and trucks back when they’d been in the bunker, but actually creating one had been...mostly trial and error. He didn’t know a whole lot about engines, but he had an old working one from an otherwise broken machine from the bunker, powered by a battery that charges via attachment to high-powered solar shingles salvaged from the ghost town, and he’d hooked it up to turn an axle, which turned a pair of wheels. It’s beyond crude, there’s no steering, but the whole contraption can carry their small infantry unit at quadruple the speed as a brisk walk, meaning they can reach their trenches in just over an hour. 

 

It isn’t pleasant riding. They’re crammed on top of the rusted metal siding that Chanyeol used to make up the bed of their “truck,” packed close together with many of them sitting with their legs hanging over the edge. The path from the community to the trenches is uneven and pockmarked with dips and bumps that send soldiers toppling to the ground more than once. When they face unavoidable bends, they have to pile off of the truck and move it manually, because the wheels don’t pivot. Chanyeol keeps making plans to improve the thing, but he never has time. Never enough time. 

 

But it gets them from point A to point B faster than walking, and that’s what matters. 

 

“God, it’s hot,” Yifan says from his spot beside Chanyeol, jostling against him as the truck flies over a bump. “I don’t know if I can survive another day in the trenches in this armour.”

 

Chanyeol grunts his agreement. The sun beats down on their heads, and heat pools under the thick material of their body armour, baking them slowly. He wonders idly if Earth was always this hot. He wonders what all changed from before the meteors. He knows about the history of the world from books and classes, he knows basic geography and science. But some things, society had lost after being underground for so long. He’ll never forget the wonder on everyone’s faces when they’d emerged to such a vast world. He’ll never forget the first sunburn he’d gotten, his skin unused to the harsh rays slicing through the atmosphere. He’ll never forget that first breath of fresh air, that first full-out run to cover huge distances, that first feeling of rain falling from the heavens onto his skin. He’s lucky enough to have experienced those firsts twice; once as a child during the first Surfacing, and again as an adult after another seventeen years underground. 

 

After three months aboveground, they’re used to some of those things now. All the free space, the unpredictability of the weather, the feeling of a breeze on their faces. But the heat continues to be nearly unbearable for all. And it’s made no easier by the heat suits they have to wear on Defense Duty. 

 

The hour passes in slow torture, with Sergeant Yunho breaking the relative silence occasionally to remind his soldiers why they’re here today. “They are not our friends,” he says, speaking loudly over the roar of the engine. “They do not deserve our pity. They will try to tell us that they need this land, but we have to take care of our own first. We cannot trust them, and we cannot afford to give in to them. They are smaller than we are. We cannot lose.”

 

Chanyeol’s heard it a hundred times, but it still manages to rile him up, especially with the sun beating hot on his head and the sound of the motor grating on his nerves. The survival of Q-16 hinges on the acquisition of that land. X-22 and their paranormal allies can fuck right off. 

 

“Who are we?” Yunho asks. 

 

“Q-16!” the soldiers cry in unison. 

 

“What are we fighting for?”

 

“A future!”

 

“That’s right! Today could be the day, comrades. If an opportunity arises, we take it. Don’t let yourself forget. To fail is to die.”

 

Chanyeol squares his shoulders, determined. They’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to fail now. He won’t let that happen. 

 

 

 

The skirmish goes exactly as Chanyeol expects for the first hours. Today, they arrive at the battle site after X-22; their arrival is greeted by a volley of gun blasts as they make a break for their trenches for cover. They all make it belowground with nothing but a couple minor injuries. They set up watches, discuss strategies. Chanyeol is completely lost; he hasn’t been around for training sessions. He tries to follow along, asks Yifan when he’s confused. 

 

Their strategizing is cut short by a warning from soldiers keeping watch over the lip of their trench. A small group of X-22 soldiers—referred to scathingly as Exes—is hurtling out of their trench and towards Q-16’s. Chanyeol is close enough to the edge that he instinctively stands and turns to fire off a round of blasts, aiming at the ground in front of the offensive group to make them falter. He doesn’t aim to kill. It’s taboo to be the first one to aim to kill—everyone’s afraid it’ll start a full-out war born from desperation and vengeance. 

 

The advancing group of Exes isn’t who they should be worried about, anyway. It’s obvious that it’s a diversion from a secondary group, which Chanyeol expects to sneak around on their left. His fellow soldiers agree, murmuring amongst themselves as they try to conserve blaster shots. Sure enough, a second group of Exes attempts to sneak up on them five minutes later, and half of Q-16’s soldiers turn their warning fire on them, until the other side gives in and retreats. All is quiet for the next hour. 

 

Chanyeol sighs and takes out his puzzle box and a soft cloth to rub away grit and rust. 

 

It drags on like this for hours. Sometimes it’s Q-16’s troops hurtling over the Dead Zone to lob smoke bombs into X-22’s trenches—they’re not noxious or anything, but they’re annoying as hell and they’ll lower morale. Other times it’s X-22 trying to outmaneuver them, trying to get close enough to trap them in their trenches and overpower them. No one really achieves anything. They always end up back in their own trenches, nursing wounds, baking in the heat, slapping at insects, trying to remember why they have to be here at all. 

 

“We cannot show weakness,” Sergeant Yunho says, pacing along the trench with his head down. “We cannot afford to lose battles.”

 

“Yeol, can you look at my blaster? It’s doing that thing again.” Soojung slaps her gun into Chanyeol’s hands, squatting in front of him. 

 

Chanyeol sighs, jiggling the trigger gently. “You squeezed it too hard again. I told you it’d get stuck if you squeezed it too hard.”

 

“Yeah well what am I supposed to do? If I think I’m gonna get shot, I’m not gonna be paying attention to how hard I’m pulling the trigger.” Soojung rolls her eyes. 

 

“Well if you pull the trigger too hard, you’re not going to be able to protect yourself at all. You know we’re short on working blasters.” Chanyeol sighs, tucks his puzzle box into his pack and takes out a thin lever to try to loosen the stuck trigger. He’s just gotten the edge into the tiny gap between trigger and barrel when he hears someone call, “Ex offensive strike, straight on! Maybe a dozen soldiers.”

 

“Conserve gunfire, wait ‘em out,” Yunho orders. 

 

Chanyeol lets his fellow soldiers get on the defensive, focusing his attention on Soojung’s blaster. She waits in front of him, vibrating with energy. 

 

“Second wing spotted, sir, field right, less than two dozen. Stealth advance.”

 

“Pretend we haven’t seen them, let them get a little closer,” Yunho says, watching both advancements carefully. This has already happened a couple times during the day. It’s getting old. 

 

Chanyeol has just jammed a thin wire into Soojung’s blaster to loosen the trigger pin, wondering why X-22 keeps using the same tactics over and over, when dirt rains down on their heads and someone yells, “Fuck, third wing, field left! Ten soldiers.” 

 

Shit, looks like they’ve changed things up after all. He shoves the blaster into Soojung’s hands and gets to his feet, swinging his pack onto his shoulders, heart rabbiting as he looks to their sergeant. 

 

“Rank one, up and over!” Yunho yells. “Go straight down the middle, overpower their center unit.”

 

“Shit, what rank am I?” Chanyeol asks, wheeling around. 

 

“With me,” Yifan says, curling a hand around the edge of his breastplate and dragging him forwards. 

 

Rank one, then. Chanyeol clambers up the side of the trench, boots fumbling over the rough dirt stairs, and follows his fellow soldiers as they make a break across the Dead Zone. Dirt flies, but no one’s getting seriously hurt—no one ever gets seriously hurt. Chanyeol aims at the feet of X-22’s small center unit, making them stumble back. 

 

“Right wing, break!” Yifan yells, and Chanyeol flails. What wing? What the fuck? “Chanyeol, go!”

 

“Go where?” Chanyeol asks, completely lost. He _really_ should have been spending more time in training with the infantry. 

 

Yifan pushes him towards the group detaching itself from the unit, swinging around to X-22’s center unit’s side. He sprints to follow, not wanting to be left behind and unprotected. 

 

At the same time, one of the Exes goes down, just collapses to the ground, and there’s an immediate outcry. _Shit._ The body doesn’t move, and Chanyeol goes cold. People don’t die in these skirmishes. It just doesn’t happen. 

 

People are yelling. Orders are being bellowed across the field. X-22’s troops are retreating to their trenches and raining gunfire down upon Q-16 in vicious backlash. Chanyeol sees some of his own comrades drop. Yunho is shouting, Yifan and the other rank leaders are shouting, but Chanyeol doesn’t even understand the terms they’re using. Soon, the only Ex left on the field is the fallen soldier, prone and unguarded. 

 

Chanyeol lifts his blaster and points it at the still body, his head spinning, wondering if this is a ruse, if this was a ploy to get Q-16 firing so that X-22 could fire back. He doesn’t remember anyone shooting to kill. 

 

Now, people are definitely shooting to kill. 

 

In the ensuing chaos, Q-16 has nowhere to aim except for the fallen soldier. If he isn’t dead now, he’s going to be in a couple seconds. 

 

But then another soldier scrambles out of enemy trenches, amidst yelling and gunfire. He goes straight for his comrade, curling hands into crude armour and dragging him back. Chanyeol watches, dumbstruck, and doesn’t shoot. He can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to drag a wounded soldier back to safety in the middle of open fire, no matter the distance. A moment later, though, both bodies tumble back into the trench. 

 

After that, everything is chaos. Chanyeol is dodging gunfire left and right, dust clouding his vision, looking for his rank, his unit. No one seems to know what they’re doing, but Yifan is shouting orders that Chanyeol still doesn’t understand. Finally, through the pandemonium, he hears, “Right wing, fall back!” That, Chanyeol can parse. “Cover us!”

 

He looks around wildly, spots his unit retreating. He’s just about to follow them when he sees Soojung stop in her tracks, too close to enemy trenches. She slams her palm against the handle of her blaster, shaking it roughly, and Chanyeol realizes her trigger’s jammed again. She’s completely defenseless, and caught in crossfire. 

 

“Soojung!” he yells, straining to be heard above gun blasts and explosions and yelled orders. “Soojung, fall back!” 

 

She looks up at him, but doesn’t move, frozen with terror. 

 

“Soojung, _run_ ,” Chanyeol says, taking off at a sprint to cover her. 

 

She starts running to meet him, but Ex heads start appearing over the lip of their trench, right alongside their blaster barrels. Chanyeol lifts his weapon and aims, dropping into a crouch as soon as she’s past him to fire at the ground right in front of the soldiers shooting at them. 

 

Before he can get more than one shot in, a blast clips Chanyeol’s helmet with explosive force, and he’s knocked back, vision swimming. A moment later, pain shoots through his left leg. _Shit._

 

He tries to roll onto his knees, frantic, but his brain is sluggish—he thinks dazedly that he might be concussed. His lower leg hurts so badly that his eyes start to water. He tries to stand anyway, but the pain is intense, and he can barely even figure which way is up. His vision is blurring, and he’s almost completely deaf from the blow that struck his helmet. He falls to his knees, gasping for breath. He knows he’s too close to enemy lines. No one’s going to come fetch him, like the Ex fetched his fallen comrade. 

 

He fumbles for his blaster, figuring he might as well go down with a fight. But his hands are clumsy, his mind foggy, his head throbbing. He bites his lip, feels his blaster grip in his hands. His fingers slip on the trigger, and he can’t see if anyone’s near him anyway. He shoots blindly. 

 

His blaster is wrenched from his hands, and he hears muffled shouting through the ringing in his ears. Hands grip his head, yank off his helmet. Chanyeol sucks in a desperate breath, closes his eyes against sunlight that’s too bright. Someone starts dragging him across the dirt. 

 

Is he being rescued? 

 

He barely forms the thought before he’s pulled headfirst into a trench. Too close to be his own. It must be the Exes’. 

 

“Wait,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s going to say but knowing he should try to protest. 

 

Something hard comes down on his head, and Chanyeol blacks out.

 

***

 

“Kyungsoo. You understand why we asked you to speak with us, do you not?” 

 

Kyungsoo swallows hard and stares at the ground in front of his feet. “I think so.”

 

Victoria, his commanding officer, exchanges a look with Boa. They both look like harried mothers, but with that edge of ruthless authority that always scares Kyungsoo. “You broke rank not once, but _twice_ , without permission, to run onto the battlefield in open fire.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Kyungsoo says quietly. 

 

“Not only that, but you were to look after Sehun. You didn’t tell us that he still struggles with epilepsy.”

 

“He doesn’t!” Kyungsoo protests, looking up at his commanding officer and leader desperately. “He didn’t. This was the first time he’s had a seizure in years.”

 

There’s a long, heavy pause. “Be that as it may,” Victoria says. “You were supposed to be watching him. It was his first battle. It’s because of him that there were any casualties at all.”

 

“I understand,” Kyungsoo says, looking at the ground again. Guilt squeezes at his chest.

 

“Although your reckless behaviour very well may have saved Sehun’s life, we do not allow disobedience within our ranks for a reason,” Victoria says, frowning. “You know this.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“And while we can understand your drive to disobey orders in order to save a member of your family unit, we cannot excuse your doing it a second time to save one of the enemy.”

 

Kyungsoo swallows thickly. He promised Sehun he wouldn’t implicate him—that he wouldn’t tell their commanding officer that it was Sehun who had urged Kyungsoo to go out a second time, to save the fallen Sixer’s life. “Don’t let him die like that,” he had told Kyungsoo frantically, still barely recovering from his seizure. “Don’t let him die like I almost did.” And Kyungsoo had run out to drag in an enemy soldier.

 

Kyungsoo keeps his mouth shut. 

 

The two women in front of him watch him carefully, and then Boa sighs. “We’ll discuss a real punishment for disobeying orders in the future. Until then, you’re in charge of watching the man until he wakes up.”

 

“He’s alive?” Kyungsoo is almost shocked. The guy had been bleeding pretty badly when Kyungsoo got him into the trench, and completely incoherent. 

 

“Unconscious, but alive. We’re keeping him for questioning for the time being.” Victoria clicks her tongue. “You’re on midnight watch.”

 

Kyungsoo nods, accepting his fate. “What if I fall asleep?” he asks uncertainly. They’d been up and active since the early morning. 

 

“We’ll send someone to relieve you at dawn. Pick a soldier to trade off with; we want to keep this under wraps, so don’t tell anyone outside of that person.”

 

“Seulgi,” Kyungsoo says immediately, naming his closest soldier friend. “And she’ll want to tell Joohyun.” He pauses, then adds, “And I’ll want to tell Sehun.” 

 

Victoria nods. “Seulgi and Joohyun can both take turns taking watch, if he doesn’t wake up within the next twelve hours or so. You can tell your family unit, but Sehun will not be joining our ranks in the future.”

 

Kyungsoo nods his acceptance. He doesn’t think his unit brother will be interested in serving in the military anymore, anyway. 

 

“Go take up your post,” Boa says briskly. “I’ll speak with Sehun.”

 

“Thank you,” Kyungsoo says, ducking his head as he turns. 

 

“You’re a good soldier, Kyungsoo,” Victoria says behind him. “You did well today. But follow orders in the future.” 

 

“Yes ma’am,” Kyungsoo says, then heads for the door. He exits the building into the evening air and takes a deep, calming breath. They hadn’t had any deaths in X-22 today, but it’d been a close call, and they’d had a few pretty serious injuries. He knows Q-16 got it worse, and that should make him happy. That means they won today’s battle. 

 

He just feels sick. 

 

 

 

They put the Sixer soldier in the old storehouse while they wait for him to wake up, mostly because it has a sturdy door and windows, which means their prisoner won’t be able to make a break for it as soon as he wakes up, but also because it’s removed from all the other buildings currently in use by X-22 Delta. Kyungsoo sits inside with a small solar lamp, which casts an eerie glow on the pallid, blood-smeared face of the body lying prone on the floor, hands bound and leg roughly bandaged to stop the bloodflow. 

 

He has to stay awake all night, in case anything happens, but by the time Seulgi arrives to relieve him, Kyungsoo isn’t sure if he managed. The entire night is hazy to him, like he was in a half-doze the entire time. But the Sixer is still out cold come dawn, so he figures no one has to know. 

 

He sleeps for a few hours in the early morning, waking only to give Sehun an update on their hostage. His younger brother is pleased to hear that last Kyungsoo knew, the man was still alive. Kyungsoo doesn’t tell him that that isn’t likely to be the case by tomorrow. 

 

He doesn’t even want to believe it himself. 

 

Maybe that’s why he runs for the storehouse the moment Seulgi stops by to tell him the prisoner woke up, right around midday. Kyungsoo is still exhausted, and he’s missing lunch, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his way into the old building to see Victoria and Boa standing in front of the man, now propped up against the wall but looking the worse for wear. His eyes are unfocused, he’s groaning softly, and Victoria, as usual, is nowhere near pity. 

 

“Where did your weaponry come from?” she asks, blaster up and aimed at the Sixer’s face. 

 

The man moans in pain and blinks hard. “Th’ bunkers,” he slurs. “Emerge’cy...stor’ge.”

 

“Not the blasters,” Victoria snaps, kicking at his good foot threateningly. The man whimpers regardless. “The smoke bombs. The grenades. Tell me.” The man mumbles, and Victoria kicks him again, harder. Kyungsoo has to force himself not to jump in and stop her. “Tell me or I’ll shoot you right now.”

 

“I...I made ‘em.” The man blinks again, squints at her. “Invented ‘em.”

 

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows lift in surprise. The closest their community has gotten to inventing new weaponry is using the parts from one model of blaster to fix another model. They sure as hell haven’t upgraded. 

 

“What were the things in your pack?” Victoria asks. 

 

The man seems to think on that question, swallowing visibly as he struggles. “The...oh. Tools. Was fixing.”

 

“Fixing what?” 

 

“Whatever needed...fixing. ‘M a Fixer.”

 

Victoria looks less than impressed, but suddenly, an idea is forming in Kyungsoo’s head. Fixing. They don’t have anyone near capable in that role. But they sure as hell could use someone. 

 

“What about the box? There was a box in your bag,” Boa says from the sidelines, her voice steady and commanding.

 

The Sixer doesn’t even look at her, letting his eyes flutter closed. “‘S just a toy,” he mumbles. “Was bored.”

 

It’s obvious that the man is fading back out of consciousness. Kyungsoo doesn’t blame him. He feels a bit like passing out too, and he didn’t even get bashed over the head, much less more than once. “What’s your name, soldier?” Victoria commands. 

 

The man jerks slightly, groans. “Ch’yeol.”

 

“What?”

 

His throat bobs, and his breathing is laboured. “Chanyeol.”

 

Something clicks in Kyungsoo’s mind. He stares at the soldier with wide eyes. He knows that name. 

 

Victoria turns on her heel. “Watch him,” she tells Kyungsoo, then stalks out of the building with Boa close behind her. 

 

“Yes ma’am,” Kyungsoo says, but he’s barely even conscious of her retreating figure, the sound of the door closing. He stares at the soldier, at Chanyeol, and just tries to process. 

 

“Are they—” The Sixer coughs, groans, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Are they going to kill me?”

 

Kyungsoo curls his hand into a fist. _Not if I can help it,_ says a stubborn voice in his head. Out loud, he just says, “Get some rest.” 

 

Chanyeol, most likely unable to do anything else, obediently fades into unconsciousness. 

 

Kyungsoo starts thinking about what he’ll tell his leaders.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Find a character cheat sheet for Chapter 2 [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Pr0_iforqTSJXqfdRePrTXP3FOuHChbr62NlD68GVjU/edit?usp=sharing)


	3. Chapter 3

Q-16 knows loss. 

 

During the first Surfacing, when the plague had struck suddenly and without warning, they’d lost many. Mothers, fathers, leaders. The sickness had been cruel, vicious, and killed quickly. Baekhyun didn’t lose biological family, but in Q-16, everyone was family. The dormitory-style housing underground had fostered an extremely close, intimate atmosphere, and the people had adopted an “it takes a village” approach to childrearing. Children still had primary caregivers, usually their biological mother, with whom they lived until adulthood, but every adult was a parent to every child. Every child was your brother or sister, even if you never called them that. It wasn’t uncommon not to know your friends’ biological parents, especially fathers, even when you were very close. They were interdependent. They were united. 

 

Baekhyun had lost family back then, secondary parents and siblings, and he remembers grieving, he remembers the days they died, the places where their ashes were buried. But he doesn’t remember any of those deaths hitting him as hard as Chanyeol’s. 

 

Yifan tells him, over and over, that they don’t know that he’s dead. That he could still be alive out there. But Baekhyun barely hears him. He thinks Yifan is just saying that for his own sake, to relieve some of the overwhelming guilt weighing on his chest. 

 

He doesn’t cry. Other people cry, for Chanyeol and for the other soldiers they lost in the battle. And they’d lost several. He sees women weeping, and children clinging to each other with tear-stained faces, for their lost sons and daughters, their brothers and sisters. But Baekhyun’s eyes are dry. It’s shock, probably. They weren’t expecting casualties. There were never casualties, nothing beyond a few burns, a broken bone if they were unlucky. But something had gone wrong. Baekhyun doesn’t know the details. He doesn’t know if he wants them. All he knows is that the infantry had returned late in the evening, faces sallow, with more than one unmoving body on the truck bed. And no Chanyeol. 

 

Baekhyun doesn’t sleep all night, tormented by mental images of blood-stained skin and vacant eyes. The bed across the room is empty. Both beds. Yifan never returned to their shared home after returning with his fellow soldiers, and Baekhyun doesn’t ask him where he was. 

 

The following day, he walks around in a daze. He tends his assigned field mechanically, barely seeing the weeds he hacks out of the dry ground, the stones he fills his pockets with, the insects he crushes between his fingers. The tomatoes are growing well, small but reddening in the sun, but Baekhyun can barely look at them. All he sees is blood in the shadows. 

 

At midday meal, only Luhan is sitting at their usual table. He smiles at Baekhyun, his brown eyes sad, and Baekhyun just manages a nod. “Where’s Yifan?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. 

 

“Haven’t seen him since morning,” Luhan says. “Not even with the rest of Defense.”

 

Baekhyun nods, spoons cold, bland porridge into his mouth. He has no appetite, and he struggles to swallow the food, but three months aboveground and several years of strict rations before that have taught him not to take food for granted. He forces himself to eat. 

 

“I’m going to look for him,” he says as soon as his bowl is empty. Silence has been hanging between Luhan and himself for the entire meal, but Luhan seems to understand. He nods, offers another small smile. He’s stronger than Baekhyun is. 

 

He’s just making his way out of the community center when Sergeant Yunho catches up with him, places a heavy hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder. “I wanted to speak with you,” he says, eyes serious. 

 

Baekhyun nods slowly. 

 

“You’re aware we suffered significant losses in yesterday’s battle.” It’s not a question. Baekhyun gives a jerky nod anyway. Yunho sighs. “I’m aware this is too soon. And I don’t need an answer right away. But I know you’ve expressed an interest in joining Defense Duty in the past.”

 

Baekhyun swallows hard, waits with a hollow ache in his chest. 

 

“Aside from...losses, quite a few of our soldiers won’t be able to fight for a while as they heal from injuries. During this...difficult time, we may need as many soldiers as we can find in the next months. X-22 got the best of us yesterday, caught us off-guard, but we cannot afford for that to happen again. We may need to make the next offensive strike. We can’t show weakness at this point.” Yunho gives him a steady look. “Let me know if and when you could be ready to help us do that.”

 

Baekhyun stares at him silently, and memories flick through his head. Community Leader, telling him time after time that he’s not permitted to transfer to Defense Duty. Telling him he’s too weak, too breakable. But never in the Sergeant’s presence. Always in private, in quiet conversations in his office, once with Chanyeol and Yifan present. Yunho doesn’t know. 

 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, voice rough. 

 

Yunho nods once, firm and perfunctory. “Of course,” he says, and then lets Baekhyun go. 

 

He finds Yifan in Chanyeol’s workshop, sitting at his desk. There are still tools spread out across the surface, a grease-stained cloth, a sheet of paper with blueprints roughly sketched onto it. They used to use tablets for drawing, electronic pads that could do everything a piece of paper and a pencil could and more. But they’d all eventually broken down underground, and society had been forced to regress. Chanyeol seemed to like the feel of paper under his hands more, anyway. 

 

“You won’t find him in here,” Baekhyun says, and Yifan jerks around in surprise. His eyes are red. 

 

He doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, although his throat works silently. Then he opens his mouth and says, “What if he’s not dead, Baekhyun?”

 

“Why would they keep him alive? They don’t need another mouth to feed. They’ll question him and kill him.”

 

“What if they don’t? What if they’re keeping him as leverage, as a bargaining chip? What if they offer to return him for a price?”

 

“We won’t take it,” Baekhyun says. “We have nothing to offer them apart from what we need to keep our community alive.”

 

Yifan clenches his jaw, but doesn’t argue. He knows Baekhyun is right. Instead, he turns and faces the window, the potted plant on the sill. He reaches out to stroke one finger along its green leaves, gentle and rhythmic, and Baekhyun pretends not to see the way his shoulders shake. 

 

Baekhyun doesn’t move, standing there in the doorway, and watches in silence. More memories flash before his eyes, going back through time; Chanyeol tending his tiny plant with warm eyes, Chanyeol planting his seed in its first pot of soil, Chanyeol setting up his workshop, Chanyeol looking up at the sky for the first time and smiling. Back and back and back. Chanyeol successfully fixing his first mechanical clock. Chanyeol beaming in pleasure as Community Leader praises his achievements. Chanyeol holding Baekhyun’s hand during their descent back into the Bunker after the first Surfacing. Chanyeol’s huge ears and chubby cheeks as he smiled at Baekhyun, letting him use the toy he’d been playing with, maybe four years old. He’d called him ‘B’ back then. Just ‘B.’ 

 

Baekhyun has a million memories of Chanyeol, and now that’s all he has. 

 

“The Sergeant asked me to join Defense today,” Baekhyun says. 

 

Yifan turns around, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t Community Leader against it? He wouldn’t allow it.”

 

“I don’t care,” Baekhyun says. “I’m going to join.”

 

“Baekhyun.” Yifan swallows. “It’s dangerous.”

 

“They took him, Yifan. I’m not going to just stand around and wait until they take everything else.”

 

Yifan steadies him with a long look. “You could die,” he says quietly. 

 

“We could all die,” Baekhyun says, jaw set. “I’m going to join.”

 

Yifan nods slowly. “Okay.”

 

“Don’t tell Community Leader.” Baekhyun makes sure it’s an order. 

 

Yifan doesn’t say anything, just nods. 

 

“I won’t let him take this away from me.” Baekhyun takes a deep breath, looks around the room. “I can fight.”

 

“If you want to,” Yifan agrees. 

 

Baekhyun curls his hands into fists, clings to the memories ingrained in his mind, reminding him of what he’s lost and what he has to protect. He clenches his jaw. “I need to.”

 

***

 

Minseok finally agrees to be Jongin’s conjurer the morning after the skirmish with Q-16. And by _“agrees,”_ Jongin is pretty sure he actually means _“was forced to.”_ He certainly doesn’t look willing when he comes to find Jongin as he watches Joonmyun and Yixing spreading healing energy painstakingly over a patch of pumpkin plants, unable to do anything to help. 

 

“I’ll do it,” Minseok says, crossed arms and twisted mouth telling Jongin all he needs to know about how his new partner feels about it. “When do we start?”

 

Jongin looks uncertainly to his mentors, who glance at each other. Minseok flicks a suspicious look their way. 

 

“We can start giving you lessons in the later afternoons,” Joonmyun says slowly. “We’re busy during the day, but we’d be too drained by evening to be much help.”

 

Minseok nods stiffly, starts to turn away, then stops. “Look, I don’t know what you’re all capable of, but if you try anything—”

 

“I wouldn’t!” Jongin yelps. 

 

“What part of _healing_ do you not understand?” Joonmyun mutters. 

 

Minseok merely sneers. “I’ll see you later.” He leaves off the _Freak_ this time, but Jongin feels like it’s implied. 

 

As soon as Minseok is out of earshot, Joonmyun shakes his head and says, “Him, Jonginnie? Really?”

 

Jongin smiles weakly. “I didn’t have much choice.”

 

Yixing pats his shoulder with a comforting hand. “You’re sure there’s no one else?”

 

“No one. My energy is too...it’s too _strong_ ,” Jongin says, grasping for words that can describe how he feels, constantly thrumming with power he can’t do anything with, itching to draw it into himself, move it, harness it. It’s not particularly fast or slow, the _frequency_ isn’t that uncommon, it’s just the _strength_. He doesn’t know how to explain it. “I feel like...anyone else...it would crush them. Overwhelm them.”

 

Joonmyun nods his understanding. “Most sorcerers start off weak and get stronger with time. But you just jumped right into it, didn’t you? And at such a young age.”

 

Jongin bites his lip, looks down at the ground. As he told Minseok, the abilities of a sorcerer are something a person is born with, in that you can’t become a sorcerer by force of will or training alone. It’s just something you _are_. But the abilities themselves usually don’t manifest until a person is into their twenties, once their minds and bodies are fully matured, capable of handling the physical and mental stress of energy transfer. It’s a taxing process, it takes immense concentration and control, it’s hard on the body. Jongin, in all his bad luck, had started feeling it at 16, waves of energy flooding in and out of his body until he learned how to hold it, how to block it out. It exhausts him daily, the effort of it. Many sorcerers of Delta Group, sensing the energy in him, had been amazed that he’d been able to handle it at all. 

 

He’s been waiting two years for a conjurer match, someone to share the burden with, with no luck. The energy is too strong for Jongin, and it’s too strong for anyone else. 

 

Until Minseok. 

 

“He’ll come around, Jongin,” Yixing says, soft and soothing as always. He’s a perfect conjurer. Meticulous, calm, always under control. He softens Joonmyun’s hard edges, paces them both. “We’ll help you, too.”

 

“Thanks,” Jongin mutters. 

 

“You know he’s just scared,” Joonmyun says, stretching his arms and flexing his fingers. Jongin knows handling energy all day is hard on him. “He has a shitty way of showing it, but you can feel it, right? He’s scared of what he’s getting into. He doesn’t understand it.”

 

Jongin shrugs vaguely. He _does_ feel it, that edge of unpleasantness in the energy that Minseok emits, radiating from his gut and the back of his skull. But it doesn’t mean it’s fear. It could be disgust, too, or anger. Too strong for suspicion, not that he tries to hide that, either. He could just have a headache. Physical and mental ailments don’t always feel that different. They all just feel kind of...bad. 

 

Bad, like the waves of energy that had come off of the returning infantry that night, waking Jongin up in his bed. Bad, like whatever has been wafting off of the storehouse near Jongin’s home, distracting him constantly. He doesn’t dare pry. The people of X-22 already dislike him enough. 

 

“I’m going to go prepare,” he sighs at last, knowing his mentors should get back to work. “I’ll see you later.”

 

He spends the day in his room, listening to the creak of the walls around him, the quiet movement of people outside. He tries to pick out specific energies, familiar frequencies. If he casts his mental net wide, just lets himself feel out the area around him, he can feel lots of pockets of energy—small plants, growing grass, moving people. But if he focuses, he can pick out individual ones. The houses in his immediate vicinity are unused and empty, apart from the one shared by Joonmyun and Yixing—unsafe for living in, people tell him, but Jongin sometimes wonders if they just don’t want to sleep near him. The nearest lived-in building to him houses two young men, a family unit. Not blood brothers, but not romantic partners. Jongin is familiar with their energy frequencies by now, checks in on them often, almost fond; the older has a heavy frequency, strong but quite a bit slower than Jongin’s, and the younger’s is weak but similarly fast. 

 

Only the younger is in his house right now, and his energy is vaguely sour. Jongin idly imagines what it could mean. Maybe he’s upset about something, or worried. Maybe he’s sick, and that’s why he’s still home in the middle of the day rather than working. The elder is a soldier, Jongin knows, but he’s not sure what the younger does. He’s more interested in the elder, anyway. One time Jongin shyly waved at him and he had waved back, eyebrows raised.

 

Sometimes he fantasizes about going over to the house, introducing himself, but he knows better than to think it would go well. 

 

Hours pass before Jongin hears a sharp knock on his door. He springs to his feet to open it, and finds Minseok standing there, arms crossed. “It’s 4:00,” he says. “What time are the other two showing up?”

 

Jongin twists his hands in his shirt nervously. “I’m not sure. They’ll probably be here soon.”

 

Minseok huffs quietly, shifting his weight to one foot and cocking his hip. An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. 

 

“How old are you?” Jongin blurts. 

 

Minseok cocks an eyebrow. “Twenty-six.”

 

Jongin winces. He’s even older than Joonmyun and Yixing. Age gaps in sorcerer-conjurer pairs aren’t that uncommon, but an eight-year gap when the younger is only eighteen...it doesn’t exactly fill Jongin with hope.

 

“What? Rethinking our life bond already?” Minseok asks wryly. 

 

Jongin wants to snap that that’s not what this is, but it’s hard to when he knows that if a sorcerer dies, his or her conjurer almost unfailingly dies as well, usually within the year. He should probably tell Minseok that, right off the bat. But he doesn’t. 

 

“Tell me more about this sorcerer-conjurer thing,” Minseok says, less like he’s really interested and more like he’s asking for the details of a criminal file. “You said sorcerers usually have a sorcerer parent?”

 

“My mom was one,” Jongin says. “My dad was her conjurer.”

 

“I thought you said they didn’t have to get married,” Minseok says, lifting an eyebrow. He really knows how to use his eyebrows.

 

“They don’t. Mine just did. I said it’s not uncommon.” Jongin feels his face go red. 

 

“Hmm. You’re using past tense.”

 

Jongin swallows, nods. “They died. Plague.”

 

“Oh.” Minseok looks genuinely apologetic; the first time he’s looked anything other than annoyed or outraged. “I’m sorry.”

 

Jongin shrugs, looks away. 

 

“Can you not...I mean, aren’t you guys...healers?”

 

“It’s...complicated,” Jongin says, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. 

 

“Okay,” Minseok says, graciously letting it go. 

 

Before Minseok can ask anymore questions, Joonmyun and Yixing show up. “Hey,” Joonmyun says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt. “You guys ready for your first, uh, lesson?”

 

“You don’t sound very confident,” Minseok says, and there goes that eyebrow again. 

 

Joonmyun shoots him an overly large, sunny smile. “We are completely unqualified to be teaching people about magic.”

 

“That’s encouraging,” Minseok says dryly. 

 

“It’s something you learn mostly through practice,” Yixing says gently. “Practice and instinct.”

 

“Right,” Minseok mutters. 

 

They move to a small garden on the western edge of the community, set up between two partially-collapsed buildings. There are rows of eggplants growing there, and Jongin can feel the energy humming through the soil, into the stalks and leaves. It’s a small pocket, but a reasonably strong one. 

 

“So,” Joonmyun says, sitting down next to the garden. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

 

Jongin folds his legs under him, takes deep breaths. He has to concentrate when he’s this close to the earth’s energy, just to keep it from rushing through him in an endless circuit. 

 

“Jongin already knows what he’ll be doing, but we’ll explain it a little more in detail.” Joonmyun leans back on his hands as Minseok sits down, a little distance between himself and the paranormals. “Where we’re sitting, there’s raw energy. Jongin is going to be draining some of it out of the ground.”

 

“Jongin told me the other day that people have energy, too,” Minseok interrupts. 

 

“They do,” Yixing says, nodding. “Every living thing does. But it’s...hmm. Processed. The earth’s energy in its rawest form is found in the ground. From there, it goes into plants in the form of nutrients and water, where it starts getting processed, helps the plants grow. Oxygen has energy, too, and sunlight, but it’s so faint in the air and the sunrays that it’s impossible to collect like that. Humans eat plants and drink water, so they have extra-processed energy. A sorcerer _could_ drain energy from a person, but...” He looks to Joonmyun, questioning. As a conjurer, he’ll never understand exactly how things work for his partner. 

 

“It doesn’t flow easily,” Joonmyun says, shrugging. “People hold onto their energy. Not only would draining it kill them, but humans don’t let go easily.”

 

“Plus it’s hard to transform,” Yixing adds. “It’s already so processed that it’s hard to turn it into anything else. It’s already human energy. To turn it into healing energy would be more effort than it’s worth.”

 

Minseok nods slowly. “...Sure. Okay.”

 

“Raw energy flows easily,” Joonmyun says. “And it transforms easily. So what we’ll be working on, and what Yixing and I do every day, is drawing energy up from the ground, through Jongin, and into you. When you have it inside you, you’ll shape it.”

 

“How?” 

 

This is a question for Yixing. He smiles. “You just do. You feel the energy inside you, and you focus really hard on making it into something else. You gather it, and shape it, and change it by force of will. Technically, you could potentially change it into lots of things. It’s just raw energy. But healing energy is its simplest form, and that’s what we use it for. You concentrate it into something more...focused. It’s not just energy. It heals. It helps to grow.”

 

Minseok lifts his eyebrows, looking unconvinced. “Okay.”

 

“And then Jongin takes it back and pushes it into the plants and the topsoil. And that’s all there is to it.” Joonmyun grins. “Ready?”

 

“That doesn’t sound that simple,” Minseok says, more suspicious than surprised. 

 

“Oh, it’s not,” Joonmyun says with a laugh. “It’s really, really hard. But there’s no other way to start than just jumping into it. Like, you can’t work out your energy-transforming muscles until you think you’re ready.”

 

“Will I die?” Minseok asks, dead serious. 

 

Joonmyun snorts, but Yixing just gently says, “If Jongin says you match, the energy won’t harm you. It just might...overwhelm you, at first.”

 

Minseok blows out a long, slow breath, and it’s the first time Jongin has seen a visible sign of his nervousness. 

 

“I’ll try really hard to be careful,” he says quietly. “I promise.”

 

All Minseok does is snort. “Alright, kid. Let’s give it a try.”

 

Jongin takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. The drawing and directing of magic is not hard for him, not at all. The difficult part is not taking it _all_ , draining every last drop of it out of the ground they sit on, effectively killing the entire garden and subsequently flooding Minseok with enough energy to knock him out cold. He needs a gentle, steady stream to feed into Minseok’s body, and just thinking about it is exhausting. 

 

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, reaching out mentally, finding the pocket under the garden, trying to let it leak into his body. It comes too fast, but he struggles to maintain control over it, rather than letting it all rush into him. He lets it fill him, then reaches out again, this time for Minseok. Their frequencies match up well; it feels like slipping his hand into a close friend’s. He’s never done this before, but it feels right, feels familiar. He wonders if he matched up with either of his parents. 

 

Beside him, Minseok gasps, and Jongin realizes he’s letting energy flow through the connection. He tries to rein it in, to lessen the outpour, but the energy is wild, it pushes against his restraints. 

 

“Good,” Joonmyun says. “Careful.”

 

“Feel the energy inside you, Minseok,” Yixing says calmly. “Feel it and mold it.”

 

“Fuck,” Minseok says, and it sounds like he’s grinding his teeth. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

 

Jongin knows the energy is too much for Minseok. He’d only meant to pour a little into him, but now that the connection’s been made, it feels like he can’t draw back. He clenches his fists, tries to restrict it, but it pushes and pushes, tumbling into Minseok’s body. 

 

“It fucking _hurts_ ,” Minseok says, “ _stop._ ” 

 

“Jongin, pull back,” Joonmyun warns. 

 

Jongin can’t respond, trying desperately to get a grip on the current of energy flowing up through the ground, through his body, into Minseok’s. 

 

“Minseok, try to shape it. Turn it into something concentrated, something _good_ ,” Yixing says. “Wrap around the energy and force it into a new form.”

 

“I fucking _can’t_ , I don’t want to _do this_ ,” Minseok grates out. “ _Stop._ ” 

 

“I can’t,” Jongin all but sobs, feeling out of control and scared and awful. 

 

“I can’t— I’m—” Minseok gasps sharply, cries out. Jongin feels power lance through Minseok, a lightning bolt of concentrated energy, and Jongin instinctively pulls it back into his body and out. 

 

There’s a small crack of sound, and Jongin lets go completely, wrenches his eyes open. A patch of eggplants lies withered in front of them. Minseok shakes violently beside him, eyes wide and breath coming fast. 

 

Joonmyun and Yixing stare at them silently, then exchange looks. “Uh…”

 

“Fuck this,” Minseok says, looking shaken as he clambers unsteadily to his feet. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but obviously I can’t do this after all.”

 

“Sit down,” Joonmyun says sharply. “We didn’t expect you to be able to do it on your first try.”

 

“Jongin’s really strong,” Yixing says, more gently. “He’s still working on control. I was overwhelmed my first few times, too.”

 

“I felt like I was _dying_ ,” Minseok spits. 

 

Jongin curls his hands in his hair, drawing quick, scared breaths that start to sound like sobs. “I’m sorry,” he says, hiccuping. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t, it was so much and I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop, I’m so sorry.” Panic starts creeping into his system, and the more he stresses out, the weaker his defenses get. Energy starts pulsing through him, up through the ground, rushing through his veins, out through the soles of his feet. It’s a painful circuit, like electricity running through him. 

 

“Jongin, relax,” Joonmyun says, voice softening. “It’s okay, you didn’t hurt him.”

 

“Like hell he didn’t!” Minseok snaps. 

 

“You are _not_ helping,” Joonmyun barks back. “And sit the fuck down.”

 

“Jonginnie, shhh,” Yixing says, reaching out to pull Jongin against his chest. Jongin can’t stop shaking. “It was an accident, you didn’t do anything bad.”

 

“I killed them,” Jongin whimpers. 

 

“Who?” Yixing asks, not understanding. 

 

“The—” Jongin seizes up, gasps as an old wound reopens in his chest. This isn’t the first time he’s killed something. He swallows hard. “The plants,” he manages to say. 

 

“It’s fine, Jonginnie. It’s okay.” Yixing strokes his hair slowly, shushes him and encourages him to take deep breaths. 

 

In the meantime, Joonmyun is dealing with Minseok. “You have to _work_ on it, don’t you get that? It’s not something you can automatically do on the first try. So your first attempt didn’t go so well. Do you quit learning how to walk just because you fell after your first step?”

 

“Learning how to walk doesn’t feel like _dying_ ,” Minseok snaps. “Learning to walk is _natural._ ” 

 

“The fact that you turned the energy into anything at all shows that conjuring is natural to you, too,” Joonmyun argues. “So _work on it._ Don’t just quit after your first shitty attempt.”

 

“I don’t _want_ to,” Minseok says viciously. “It’s _messed up._ ” 

 

“Minseok—”

 

“Leave me alone,” Minseok says, and Jongin can hear his voice fading as he moves away. “Freaks.”

 

“God, what an asshole,” Joonmyun mutters. 

 

“He’s scared, Joon,” Yixing says softly. “I don’t need to be able to feel it to know that that terrified him.”

 

Joonmyun sighs. “Yeah.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jongin whimpers. 

 

“It’s okay, Jonginnie.” Joonmyun sits down next to them, wraps his arms around them both. “I’ll talk to him once he’s calmed down, okay? It’ll be okay.”

 

“Okay,” Jongin whispers, and closes his eyes, letting the familiar, warm energies of his mentors, his brothers, wrap around him, comfort him. It still takes a long time for him to feel like anything other than a monster.

 

***

 

Yifan manages to last until the evening after their jarring loss against X-22 before he seeks out Yunho and says, “I want to go in after Chanyeol.”

 

The sergeant cocks his head at Yifan curiously. “Yifan. We have no way of knowing if he’s even alive. We don’t even know if he made it out of that trench.”

 

Yifan clenches his jaw. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m not going to sit around here and wonder if that’s true. I’m requesting permission to attempt a rescue mission.”

 

“Permission denied,” Yunho says immediately, and Yifan blinks in surprise. “Yifan, we suffered serious losses in yesterday’s battle. I understand that Chanyeol’s...disappearance is affecting you. But you are one of my best soldiers. We can’t afford to lose even more people right now, when we’re at our weakest.”

 

Yifan swallows hard. “Sir. When Chanyeol and I first got drafted into Defense, we promised each other we would always have each other’s backs. I know he would do the same. I can’t move on until I’ve at least tried. He could still be alive.”

 

Yunho looks at him with sympathetic eyes. “I know you feel like you’re at fault, but—”

 

“ _He’s not dead,_ ” Yifan snaps, breath coming hard. “He’s not dead.”

 

“Permission _denied_ , soldier, and that’s final,” Yunho says loudly.

 

Yifan turns away quickly, fingers curling into fists, and makes for his home, heart pounding. 

 

It’s not that he _feels_ like he’s at fault. He _is_ at fault. 

 

Chanyeol wasn’t supposed to be in rank one, with Yifan. He was supposed to stay in the trenches, with rank two, on trench defense. A safer job, a simpler job, rather than stumbling onto the battlefield and trying to follow maneuvers he’d never learned, that Yifan had never taught him. But when Chanyeol had asked what rank he was, Yifan had acted so impulsively. _“With me,_ ” he’d said, because he wanted Chanyeol there. His comrade, his best friend, his brother. He wanted the comfort of having Chanyeol with him, nearby. That’s how things were supposed to go. They were supposed to do these things together. 

 

And then everything had gone wrong. He should have expected as much. There’s a reason why they’re evenly matched with X-22, despite having a larger military. Their rival community’s soldiers are always together, their strategies are always well planned out and well executed. Q-16 has better weapons, more soldiers, but they’re always just this side of chaotic, never entirely certain where they should be and what they should be doing. Their strategies often fall apart. Yunho is an excellent commander, dedicated to protecting his people, but he is far from perfect. 

 

And Yifan is not a perfect soldier. He had dragged Chanyeol into unfamiliar territory, he hadn’t given him thorough instructions. He had practically set Chanyeol up for failure. 

 

It’s his fault Chanyeol was taken. 

 

“Luhan.” Yifan’s voice is too loud for his friend’s quiet home. “How do you feel about breaking some rules?”

 

Luhan looks at him with wide eyes. “Depends on which rules we’d be breaking.”

 

“Big rules,” Yifan says. “I’m going on a rescue mission.”

 

“For Chanyeol?” Luhan asks. “I’m assuming you’re not supposed to be doing that?”

 

“Permission denied,” Yifan affirms. “So I’m leaving tonight.”

 

Luhan lifts his eyebrows, smiles a little. “Rebel with a cause,” he says, amused. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

 

“Are you in?” Yifan prompts. Luhan’s no soldier, but he’s the only person Yifan knows who’s crazy enough to go along with such a wild idea. 

 

Luhan smiles wider. “Of course,” he says. “Let me get some stuff together.”

 

“You realize we’ll be in deep shit when we come back, right?” Yifan asks, because he can’t let Luhan agree unless he knows that. “We could be kicked out or something. Especially if we come back without Chanyeol.”

 

Luhan nods, eyes fiery and determined. “Let’s make sure we don’t come back without him, then.”

 

Yifan lets out a slow breath through his nose. “You really think he’s alive?”

 

“I think we’d better go find out,” Luhan says. 

 

“Okay.” Yifan squares his shoulders. “Okay. I’ll come get you at midnight. I’m going to get some rations from the kitchens and pack my things. Then we’re going.”

 

“You got it, chief.” Luhan salutes. “See you then.”

 

Yifan walks back to his house thinking he _must_ be crazy. He’s definitely crazy. 

 

But when he considers doing nothing, of never knowing whether Chanyeol is dead or alive, he realizes he has no other choice. 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Yifan jumps, surprised when the lump in Baekhyun’s bed moves. “I’m— Oh. I didn’t realize you were...awake.”

 

“It’s barely even nightfall.” Baekhyun sits up, levels him with a steady look. “What are you doing?”

 

Yifan swallows thickly. “I’m...going on a mission.”

 

Baekhyun stares at him, and seems to understand. He nods, but doesn’t pry. Plausible deniability. If Yifan doesn’t tell him, Baekhyun doesn’t have to lie to anyone. 

 

Yifan starts stuffing his meager belongings into his pack, taking everything he thinks he might need. Baekhyun watches in silence until Yifan blurts, “Oh! The plant, the fucking plant.”

 

“Chanyeol’s plant?” Baekhyun frowns. “You can’t take that with you.”

 

“No, I know. But I was supposed to take care of it. If—if anything ever happened to him.” He gulps. “I can’t take it with me. Baek, look after it? For him?”

 

It sounds stupid, getting a babysitter for a potted plant, but Baekhyun just nods. “Of course,” he says, his tone serious. 

 

“Thank you,” Yifan breathes. 

 

He packs in fifteen minutes flat, holsters his blaster and waits for it to be dark enough for him to slip into the kitchens unnoticed. Stealing rations is strictly prohibited in the community. But Yifan figures this will only be one of many transgressions in the near future. He tries not to feel too guilty about it. 

 

He knows Chanyeol would do the same for him in a heartbeat. 

 

“Good luck,” Baekhyun says softly, his voice hanging in the tense silence between them. 

 

“Thanks,” Yifan whispers. He’s going to need it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1u2HV_dE04xDol3vR_rULnlK--QPz46MNTCEczLg5gWg/edit?usp=sharing)!


	4. Chapter 4

Chanyeol wakes up with a pounding headache, which would usually piss him off. Today, though, it’s a blessing in disguise. Because he’s awake. Which means he’s not dead (unless this is the shittiest afterlife ever). And he had definitely expected to be dead. 

 

He kind of remembers waking up a few times before that, foggy and dazed, but this is the first time since being questioned that he’s been fully aware. And he is _fully_ aware, especially of how much his head hurts, and how much his leg throbs with pain when he moves it. “Shit,” he mutters.

 

“Rise and shine, Sleepy Sun,” a female voice greets him as he shifts and groans. He’s laid out across a thin blanket on a concrete floor. Chanyeol squints, and a young, pretty face swims into view. “What, didn’t have that book in your bunker?”

 

Chanyeol coughs, throat dry. “Where am I?” His hands are bound in front of him, and he feels like death. 

 

“Not sure if I’m permitted to tell you, Sixer,” the girl says. “Pretty sure it’s not too hard to figure out, though.”

 

Chanyeol squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in and out slowly. “Why am I not dead?”

 

The girl sniffs. “All will be revealed in time. Hold on.” She disappears, and Chanyeol hears a shrill whistle after a door somewhere opens. He works on breathing while he waits, assesses his injuries. He’s sore all over, battered and bruised and aching, and his stomach is cramping with how hungry he is, his lips are cracked from dehydration, but his only actual injuries are his leg and head. 

 

He fades out of consciousness a little, then jolts back awake when someone presses a cup to his lips. He should be careful, should be wary when the enemy is offering him anything, but he’s so thirsty that he gulps it down instinctively, liquid slopping over his chin. He chokes, coughs, drinks more, then realizes people are talking to him. 

 

“We were going to kill you, Sixer. We can still kill you,” says a hard, female voice. The same one that questioned him last time, not the one who was there when he woke up. “But you said you’re good with machines.”

 

Chanyeol draws a deep breath, water dampening the front of his shirt. He’s being held upright with an arm around his shoulders, and the hand on his arm tightens. Chanyeol blinks hard, coughs. “So?”

 

“If you open your eyes a little, Sixer, you’ll see that we have something we need fixed,” the woman says, looming above him, hands on her hips. 

 

Chanyeol squints, looks around. The building they’re in is all concrete and steel beams, the only kind of building that survived the century after the meteor, with high windows letting in dim light. The soft rays highlight shelves along all the walls, stacked with scrap metal, old parts, rotting wooden crates. It’s a storage shed, like his workshop back home, but it’s bigger, better-stocked. And on one side of the floor, a huge, hulking machine stands, rusted through its metal siding in places, obviously old and presumably not in working order. It’s twice as tall as Chanyeol at least, with enormous, cracked rubber tires and red paint flaking off where it still remains at all. It’s formidable in size alone. Not to mention the huge, vicious blades at the bottom, like a row of unforgiving teeth. 

 

“We found it here when we first settled,” the woman says. “It’s never worked, but it’s obviously a weapon of some sort. A mechanical monster. We want it fixed.”

 

Chanyeol squints, lets that sink in. “Why would I help you?”

 

“If you fix it, we’ll let you go,” the woman says simply. “And we won’t use the machines against your people.”

 

Chanyeol wants to scoff, but he bites it back. Even in his concussed state, he realizes he needs to consider his options. He knows X-22 will _not_ let him go alive for nothing in return. It would make them seem weak, non-threatening. They’d need compensation for return of a hostage. Q-16 would never give it. He’s not optimistic enough to think that. 

 

He’s also not optimistic enough to believe they’d let him go free if he manages to fix their machine, much less never use the thing against them. 

 

But. Chanyeol has one prayer. One grain of hope. It’s a far reach, but he’s pretty sure it’s his best bet at this point. 

 

Q-16 may not come after him, but Yifan might. 

 

He has no idea if they even suspect he’s still alive. They’re probably, with good reason, assuming him dead. But Chanyeol fully believes that if there is any hope, Yifan will try his best for him. He knows, because he’d do the same in a heartbeat. To the end means to the _end._

 

He just needs to stay alive until then. 

 

“How can I trust you?” Chanyeol asks, setting his jaw. 

 

The lady snorts. “You have no choice but to,” she says. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

 

“Victoria,” warns another woman’s voice, softer. She steps forward, long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. To Chanyeol, she says, “Can you fix it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol admits, swallowing hard. “Maybe.”

 

A low voice in his ear startles him. “As long as you’re making progress they won’t kill you,” it breathes. “As long as you don’t make trouble.”

 

Chanyeol had completely forgotten about the person holding him up, holding his cup of water. He turns a little, catches sight of a face—it’s a boy, a _man_ , young but hard-faced. Chanyeol had been starting to think X-22 was all women. 

 

“You’ll stay in here,” the older woman who is not Victoria says. “We’ll have soldiers on watch day and night. You’ll get fed the same rations as everyone else.” Chanyeol seriously doubts that. “You’ll have access to all of our parts and tools, anything you need.” She pauses, then says, “If we suspect you to be doing anything other than fixing the machine, we will not hesitate to incapacitate you.”

 

Chanyeol swallows hard. 

 

“We’re making you a _very_ generous offer,” VIctoria says, palming the hefty blaster on her hip. “I suggest you take it.”

 

The arm that’s shifted to curl around Chanyeol’s ribs tightens. Chanyeol winces. “Not much choice, is there?”

 

Not-Victoria frowns, and Victoria smirks and says, “Not much.”

 

“Then I’ll see what I can do,” Chanyeol mutters. 

 

 

 

It’s the male soldier on Chanyeol’s first watch. The one who held him up, gave Chanyeol water for his dry throat. He brings food this time, cold cornmeal mush and bland steamed carrots, and undoes his bonds so Chanyeol can feed himself with numb, clumsy hands. Chanyeol shoves it into his mouth greedily, barely tasting it. The soldier stands next to the door, watching in silence until he gruffly says, “How’s your leg?”

 

Chanyeol jumps in surprise at the voice, blinking at the soldier and then at his leg, stretches out in front of him at an awkward angle. “It...hurts,” he says carefully. 

 

“It’s not broken,” the soldier says. “Probably a hairline fracture, if that. Maybe just a bruised bone.”

 

Chanyeol nods slowly, shoves more food into his mouth. 

 

It’s silent for a few long, awkward minutes, and then the soldier says, “How’s the head?”

 

A small smile pulls at Chanyeol’s lips despite himself. “Hurts,” he repeats. 

 

The soldier does not smile back. “Dizzy? Memory loss? Sensitivity to light?”

 

“Are you a healer, too?” Chanyeol asks, licking out his bowl. The soldier doesn’t respond. “I have a concussion, but it’s not even the worst one I’ve ever had.” He cocks his head, smiles a little. “I was a wild kid.”

 

The soldier nods perfunctorily, then falls silent again. 

 

“Big talker, aren’t you?” Chanyeol sighs dramatically. “Alright. I get it. We’re not friends, or whatever.”

 

“You are literally a prisoner of war,” the soldier says bluntly. 

 

“Yeah, I mean. Not exactly prime conditions for making friends.” Chanyeol leans over, peels the bloody bandage from his shin and hisses at the wound there, right over his injury. “Yowch. Was this your shot? If so, good aim.”

 

He doesn’t really expect the soldier to reply, but after a heavy pause, the man says, “It wasn’t mine.”

 

“Oh.” Chanyeol blinks. “Was it the girl’s? Or the scary woman in charge?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Silence falls again, and Chanyeol finishes his bowl, then stretches out across his blanket, groaning. He wonders, idly, if he’s ever going to get a better bed. If he’ll be here long enough to need one. If he’ll _live_ long enough. 

 

Well, that’s depressing. 

 

“Thank you for not shooting my brother.”

 

Chanyeol’s eyes snap open, propping himself up on his elbows quickly enough to make his head spin. “What?”

 

The soldier swallows visibly. “The first one to fall.”

 

Chanyeol stares. “You were that psycho to run onto the field?”

 

A sharp nod. “He’s fine.”

 

“Not a fatal shot that downed him?” Chanyeol can’t help but be curious. 

 

But the soldier shifts. “Epileptic seizure.”

 

Chanyeol lets that sink in. “Everything went to shit because of a seizure?”

 

The soldier nods slowly, haltingly. “It wasn’t his fault.” Then he adds, “But he still feels...really guilty.”

 

“He should,” Chanyeol mutters. 

 

He actually thinks he falls asleep in the subsequent silence, one of those hazy half-dozes where you don’t realize you’re losing consciousness until you wake up—and he does wake up, startled out of sleep by a nightmare about blaster shots and gaping wounds. He jolts, yelps in pain as the movement jars his leg. He hisses through his teeth, looks up to see the soldier still standing there in the shadows. Chanyeol winces. “Thank you for not shooting _me_.” 

 

It probably seems like a non-sequitur, stressed like that after an assumably long silence, but the soldier just shifts and nods. 

 

“Not that that’s saying much,” Chanyeol adds in a low voice. “Considering your side took the first kill shot.”

 

The soldier doesn’t respond. 

 

“So,” Chanyeol says, sighing. “Where did they take my bag?”

 

“Oh, let me grab it for you, it’s all yours.”

 

“Really?” Chanyeol perks up. 

 

“Of course not.” The soldier’s gaze is potently unimpressed. “They confiscated it. Whatever isn’t useful will be destroyed.”

 

“Aha, jokes! We’re doing jokes now. Who says we’re not friends? Just a hostage and his captor, chumming it up. I like where this is going.”

 

Another dry look. 

 

Chanyeol huffs. “What about my puzzle box?”

 

The soldier narrows his eyes. “What do you need it for?”

 

“Uh, for remembering my family and friends? It was a gift. I was trying to fix it.” Chanyeol frowns. “I was hoping to complete it eventually.”

 

The eyebrows don’t relax, but the soldier relents and says, “I’ll see if I can take a look at it.”

 

“Really? Nice. Thanks.”

 

The soldier shrugs, looks away. 

 

“Hey, soldier boy,” a voice calls from outside. A female, _again_ , but when she pokes her head in, she’s not a familiar one. “Got you a comfier seat, and we’re working on getting a barred door for the building made, so you can keep watch from outside.” She smiles. “Also, thanks for taking evening/night shift so Seulgi and I can be at home together. And miss training while we take our shifts tomorrow.”

 

“Bad idea,” Chanyeol calls over. “Trust me. Go to training.”

 

The girl gives him a strange look. 

 

“Thanks, Joohyun,” the soldier mutters. “Tell Sehun or someone to bring me some food, will you? I missed breakfast. And supper.”

 

Chanyeol wrinkles his nose. Using outdated meal names is considered tacky. He wonders why X-22 still uses them. He considers asking someday, maybe, if he...lives long enough. 

 

“Sure,” the girl—Joohyun, Chanyeol is slowly learning names—says. “Hey, Seulgi wanted to know if she can tell her brother about the hostage situation. He’s not in her family unit anymore, since we moved in together, but he’s still family…?”

 

“Probably not, but ask Victoria,” the soldier says. They call their commanding officer by her first name. Interesting. “I know she wants to keep it on the down-low as much as possible.”

 

“Sure thing.” Joohyun salutes sloppily with a smile. “Have a nice night, Kyungsoo.”

 

The soldier stiffens at the same time that Chanyeol does. Joohyun leaves, but he barely notices. Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo. Why is that name familiar? He knows that name. It reverberates around his skull, in a voice that is his, but younger. Much younger. 

 

Small hands. Scared smile. Whispered goodbye. 

 

A single seed. 

 

“Kyungsoo?” he says, unable to stop himself. He stares hard even as the soldier tries to angle his face away. “Seed boy?”

 

He can just see the edge of a ghost of a smile. “You remember.”

 

“You’re an Ex?” Chanyeol asks, aghast. 

 

“You’re a Sixer.”

 

“Apparently.” Chanyeol gapes. “You knew?”

 

“Since you told Victoria your name.” Kyungsoo frowns, and Chanyeol really _looks_ at him. Is his face familiar? He barely remembers that time. “I’m surprised you remember the seed.”

 

“I still have it,” Chanyeol says, dumbstruck. “I planted it.”

 

Kyungsoo blinks at him, obviously surprised. “Did it grow?”

 

“Yeah.” Chanyeol grins despite the way his head is spinning. “Yeah, it did.”

 

Maybe it’s a play of the shadows on his face, but Chanyeol thinks Kyungsoo bites his lip to rein in a smile of his own. “That’s...good.”

 

Chanyeol shifts his cramping leg and has to stifle a cry of pain. “Fuck,” he whispers, and then he gives a wan smile as he says, “And now look at us, all enemies and shit. My, how things change.”

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t respond. He’s really killing that cold shoulder approach. 

 

The more Chanyeol thinks about it, the less he can believe that Seed Boy was an Ex all along. He had thought so fondly about his childhood friend for all these years, remembered him with a smile when he looked at his windowsill plant, wistfully wished to meet him. And now he has, and he’s an enemy. More than an enemy. He’s holding Chanyeol captive, forcing him to fix a machine that will more than likely one day be used to kill everyone he knows. It feels like a slap to the face. 

 

Kyungsoo sits in the corner and doesn’t look at him, and Chanyeol doesn’t know how to feel.

 

Another boy shows up twenty minutes later (a boy!), carrying a tray of food as he peeks curiously at Chanyeol with a shy smile. Kyungsoo has a brief, whispered conversation with him, then sends him off and settles down in his cushioned seat—it looks like the kind they had in Bunker Q-16, ripped out of the mess hall. It sends a stab of homesickness through Chanyeol, who sits miserably on the blanket that does little to protect him from the cold hardness of the concrete floor. He clenches his teeth, lies down, and really starts to let everything sink in. Where he is. What he’ll be forced to do. The fact that he may not survive, may never see his friends again, his family. He swallows hard. 

 

If a few stinging tears dampen the thin fabric under his cheek, well, no one has to know.

 

***

 

 

Minseok agrees to one week of training before he makes any final decision concerning continuation.

 

Jongin isn’t sure what Joonmyun said to him, but it must have worked, because the next day Minseok is knocking on his door, arms crossed and face hard as usual. It really doesn’t look like he’s approaching this thing with an open mind, which makes Jongin worry, because just yesterday he was thinking about the fact that a sorcerer doesn’t usually live long without a conjurer, and he has no idea how long it takes to make a bond that strong. But at the same time, how much longer will he last without a conjurer regardless? 

 

They make a little progress during that day’s training. At least, Jongin thinks so. It’s hard to tell, though, when he’s busy practically killing himself with how hard he’s trying to control the energy that flows through him. They don’t manage to heal anything, that’s obvious, but Minseok doesn’t tell him it feels like he’s dying anymore. No, that’s Jongin’s job now, weak and weary at the end of an hour-long session, trembling with exertion, just happy that Minseok didn’t storm off this time. It means he’s doing a better job. 

 

Jongin works closely with Joonmyun, who tries to give him tips about controlling energy flow despite having never struggled with it nearly as much as Jongin does, and Yixing works with Minseok to help him grasp the concept of shaping magic. Minseok spends most of the session looking frustrated and pained, and sometimes his fear shines through, but he only mentions once that he hates it. Jongin considers that an improvement. 

 

Joonmyun and Yixing send them to supper early, saying they have to spend some time with the plants Jongin and Minseok practiced on, which means they have to try to undo the damage the new pair did. It makes Jongin feel almost unbearably guilty, but he’s so tired by that point that he goes without argument, trudging back to the community center to get his meal. 

 

Minseok slaps his tray down beside him ten seconds after Jongin falls into his seat, making him jump in surprise. “I’m still really in the dark about all this magic shit,” the older man says, sounding bored, but in a way that seems forced. “Tell me more about it.”

 

“Like what?” Jongin asks uncertainly. 

 

“I don’t know. What’s your history? Do you have a history?”

 

Jongin smiles, pokes at limp steamed cabbage. “Of course. Everything has a history.”

 

“Well, I don’t know, you guys seemed to just pop up out of nowhere,” Minseok says, shoving food into his mouth. Jongin wonders if he’s as exhausted as Jongin is. 

 

“We’ve been around for a long time,” Jongin says. “But almost always in secret.”

 

“Why in secret? What do you have to hide?” Minseok asks, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. 

 

Jongin’s smile droops at the corners, and he swallows hard. “We have everything to hide. Look at how people have reacted.” He sweeps his arm. 

 

Minseok looks up, and Jongin knows he sees. It’s not like people are subtle. No one sits at the tables on either side of them, instead squeezing into tables farther away. People look away when they catch Jongin looking at them. They steer their children away from Jongin’s table, they cover their mouths with their hands as they mutter about him to the people around them. Jongin should be used to it already, but he still goes hot, he still feels ashamed for something he can’t help, something he was brought up to be proud of. 

 

“It’s not like we expected anything else,” Jongin says with a weak shrug. “We know the world’s history with magic. Witch trials. Burnings. Executions. Ridicule. Magic has never had a good name among those who know nothing about it. We knew better than to reveal ourselves to the world at large. It was better to stay hidden, to keep it a secret, to use our abilities covertly. It was safer.”

 

“But now you’ve shown up out of nowhere. Why?” 

 

Jongin sighs, plays with the hem of his standard black community-issued shirt. It’s getting threadbare and frayed in places, but everyone’s clothes are that way. He never wants to ask for more. “This part I can only tell from the perspective of Delta Group.”

 

“Your...clan, or whatever?” Minseok asks. 

 

“I guess.” Jongin shrugs. “We built our own, private bunkers. We couldn’t afford to build such big ones, like the government-run ones, so we separated into lots of smaller groups. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, et cetera. I was born into Delta. After so long apart, we didn’t have the unity we had before the meteor. We had different ideologies, different beliefs. But in Delta Group...a lot of us wondered why we existed. Why we had these abilities, which didn’t seem that important pre-meteors. I think it manifested differently back then, when there was so much energy everywhere. Because if that was now...it’d be really overwhelming. Even more overwhelming.”

 

“Is it overwhelming now?” Minseok asks, frowning. “For you.”

 

Jongin nods, embarrassed. “I feel...too much. It takes a lot of concentration to stop all the energy from flowing through me, especially in areas where there’s a lot of it in the raw, like in the fields. If I’m tired or stressed out, it’s harder.”

 

“Is it like that for all sorcerers?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.” Jongin twists his fingers in his shirt, stretching out the fabric even further. “Or maybe I’m just a baby, I don’t know.”

 

Minseok huffs, but doesn’t respond. “So, you wondered why you existed…?” he prompts. 

 

“Oh. Yeah. Just, we wondered why sorcerers and conjurers, but especially sorcerers, had the abilities we had. It seemed so useless. But when we surfaced again after the meteor...well. I think it made sense then. The earth was suffering so much. It was so sick. But it was healing, along with its people. And we realized we could help with that. We could finally fulfill what we felt was our purpose. Healers.” Jongin shrugs, bashful. “Anyway, that’s why we revealed ourselves. We went around to all the communities starting to surface and colonize, and placing sorcerer-conjurer pairs in each one to help out with the growing and all that. Obviously, not everyone accepted us. Some much less than others. And some...hated us so much that they tried to kill us, and became the enemies of anyone who supported us. But, well. We kind of thought that might happen.” He sighs. “Sometimes it’s hard to want to help a people who are so mean to you.”

 

“Hmm,” says Minseok, which is not sympathy or compassion, but at the very least is not contempt. 

 

A minute later, though, a teenager loudly stage-whispers, “Go home!” in his direction, and all his friends around him snicker and push each other along as they hurry away, and Jongin feels sick and ashamed. 

 

Minseok does nothing, pretends not to have even heard, and that certainly doesn’t make it feel better. 

 

He’s distracted, however, by a shout of, “Min!” A small girl, maybe four or five, rushes to their table, and Minseok turns with open arms to catch her as she falls into them. 

 

“Hello, little bird,” Minseok says, and suddenly his eyes are soft, and he’s smiling. Jongin has never seen him look that way before. “How was your day?”

 

“Good,” the little girl chirps, getting comfortable in his lap. “I played with Junhee, I was the doctor and he was sick, and then he was the doctor and I was sick.”

 

“That sounds fun,” Minseok says, petting her black hair fondly. 

 

Jongin is distracted from the sweet, familial spectacle by a someone sharply saying, “ _Wait, Najung._ ” He looks up, sees a young mother holding tightly to the arm of another little girl who strains against her, looking at Minseok’s little sister. 

 

“Mom, I want to sit with Yejoo,” the little girl whines. 

 

The mother looks up, looks at Yejoo, looks at _Minseok._ “Not now,” she says, drawing her daughter closer to her side. “That boy is different.”

 

Jongin jolts in his seat, taken aback. She’s not even looking at him. Jongin is used to being called different, he is used to the people of X-22 steering their children clear of him. But he is no longer the only one people are attaching that stigma to. 

 

Minseok clenches his jaw, holds onto his sister, and looks at his food. 

 

“Min,” Yejoo says, whispering in that overly-obvious way that toddlers have. “Is that the freak boy?” She points a tiny finger at Jongin. 

 

Minseok grunts, doesn’t look at him, gives a halfhearted shrug. “Let’s eat our supper, little bird,” he says quietly. 

 

Jongin doesn’t eat another bite, his stomach rolling with guilt. It’s only hit him, just now, what this all means for Minseok. Being seen with him, everyone knowing they’re working together. 

 

Of course Minseok doesn’t have an answer for his little sister. He’s a freak boy now, too.

 

***

 

 

“Oh my god, we’ve been walking for _forever._ ”

 

Yifan sighs, lacking the energy to even argue the point. He and Luhan had walked for hours in the cover of the night, but as soon as daylight had broken, they’d decided they _needed_ to get some sleep, both of them exhausted and weary. Yifan hadn’t slept at all the previous night, either, so he had been practically unconscious on his feet. They’d taken turns, sleeping and keeping watch in shifts, baking under the relentless heat of the sun, and then, as soon as they were both at least a little rested, they’d dragged themselves up and started walking again. 

 

A straight route from Q-16 to X-22 would take, Yifan guesses, about eight hours on foot. With breaks, maybe ten. But because Yifan is well aware that there are soldiers from both communities on watch for attacks in the Dead Zone, they’d been forced to take a roundabout route to the opposing community, looping south through the hills, opposite the Valley that lies to the north. It makes the trek even longer, maybe fourteen hours. Fourteen long, arduous hours, some of it spent roasting under the sun, at the mercy of the bugs, tired and sore and cranky and worried about their future. 

 

Yifan made a split-second decision to go after Chanyeol, but now he’s wondering if he should have spent more time thinking this through. 

 

But then again, he has no idea how long Chanyeol will stay alive, if he’s even still alive at all. 

 

“Let’s go through the plan again,” Yifan says, sighing. “So, we’ll set up camp in the hills.”

 

“So they won’t be able to see us,” Luhan agrees. “And I’ll go in for recon.”

 

“Because they might be able to recognize me. But they’ve never seen your face before.” Yifan winces. He’s not sure if Luhan is a fantastic choice for an undercover recon mission, but he’s literally all Yifan has. 

 

“I’ll be masquerading as a rogue,” Luhan says, flexing and grinning for maximum effect. “Gathering intel as I pretend to be someone seeking refuge from the elements.”

 

“Sure,” Yifan says with a wince. “You’ll just be trying to find out if Chanyeol’s alive, where he is, and how to get him out.”

 

“No problem,” Luhan says, with an air of confidence that is completely unfounded. 

 

Yifan would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. 

 

They keep walking, discuss their strategies a little more in-depth, Yifan fretting and Luhan waving off all his concerns like usual. It’s actually kind of calming in its normalcy, in a backwards way. The shadows start to lengthen as they wind their way through the dead, dry hills, occasionally climbing up to look out over the surrounding land. They can see X-22 in the distance, a dark smudge of buildings rising out of the ground, and between the hills and the community lie patches of greenery, small fields and struggling plants. 

 

They stumble across a little garden nestled between two hills, pushing through the soil in a small pocket of arable land, and Yifan crushes the little plants underfoot without thinking about it, grinding small leaves into the dirt. 

 

“What are you doing?” Luhan yelps, watching with wide eyes. 

 

Yifan furrows his eyebrows at his partner, frowning. “We’re fighting them, Luhan. We are literally fighting them for the right to grow plants.”

 

“Yeah, but...what will they eat?” Luhan shifts uneasily. “Winter’s coming. They’ll starve.”

 

“They took Chanyeol because they greedily wanted more land,” Yifan says. “They killed our soldiers because they wanted more plants like these.”

 

Luhan clenches his jaw, fingers the pack strap around his shoulder. “Yifan, I’m here to help a friend. Not to ruin any lives.”

 

Yifan has to bite his tongue to hold back a retort, drilled into him after months of training under Sergeant Yunho. _They are not like us. They do not deserve our pity. We will do what we must to protect our own._

 

But Luhan is not a fighter. He’s just a Builder, here to help Yifan, to save Chanyeol. Yifan has to remember that. 

 

They reach community borders an hour later, just as the sky is darkening to black over X-22. In the fading light, they can see the community just a kilometer or so away, across now-empty fields, and to the west of it, a tiny little camp in the distance, definitely separate but also close enough to be distinctly aware of. A rogue camp, probably, living off of the scraps of X-22. Luhan and Yifan don’t approach, wary, but they decide to keep an eye on it. 

 

“It’s too late to go in today,” Yifan decides, letting Luhan set up a camp of their own, hidden from view by the hills around them. “It’d be suspicious, approaching a community in the dead of night.”

 

Luhan hums and nods, spreading himself out on a bed mat with a groan of relief. “Tomorrow, then?”

 

“Yeah. Bright and early. You ready?”

 

Luhan grins, which is completely not reassuring. He’s always been really good at making Yifan feel ill at ease without trying to. “I am completely ready.”

 

Yifan sighs. “Let’s go over it again, then.”

 

He has the feeling he won’t sleep tonight, either. Only this time it’s not just because he keeps having nightmares about Chanyeol bleeding out all over the ground, about Chanyeol breathing his last breath as Yifan desperately begs him not to die, about him calling for Yifan to save him, but Yifan can’t, he can’t do anything, he’s frozen with shock, and—

 

It’s going to be a long night.

 

***

 

 

Luhan approaches the first person he sees upon entering X-22 on foot, running soil-caked hands through his hair, like he rubbed them across his cheeks just a minute ago. “Hi,” he says, trying on a disarming smile. “Is there anyone I could talk to about, maybe, staying a few nights here? I’ve been travelling alone for months, and I don’t know how much longer I can last on my own.” _Flawless delivery, Luhan. You’re killing this._

 

The man Luhan found—one of the few people awake so early in the morning, when the sun has just peeked over the hills, probably only out of bed because there’s a little girl clinging to the back of his pants—raises one sharp eyebrow at him. “Who the hell are you?”

 

“Luhan,” he says, because he doesn’t think there’s any reason he should use a fake name when nobody knows who he is anyway. “Who are you?”

 

The man looks distinctly unimpressed. “Minseok,” he says. “You from around here?”

 

“No, not really,” Luhan says, trying out the backstory he came up with last night. “I was part of Bunker R-09. Heard of it?”

 

Minseok hums. “Think so.”

 

Luhan blanches a little. He had...not expected that answer. “Oh. Well, we were struck pretty hard by the plague…”

 

“Really? Hmm. I didn’t hear about that. Thought you guys were a big group.”

 

Luhan coughs. “Well, we were _pretty_ big…”

 

“Mhmm,” says Minseok.

 

“Anyway. There was a lot of fighting...big mess...I thought going out on my own would be a better idea.”

 

Minseok quirks an eyebrow. “But?”

 

“But...I’m kind of...running low on supplies.” Luhan gives an embarrassed look. “And it’s dangerous out there alone, when there are other rogues like myself, desperate for food.”

 

“Dangerous for you or dangerous for others because of you?” Minseok asks. 

 

“For me!” Luhan says quickly. “I wouldn’t steal like that. Which is why I’m here. Willing to work for food and shelter, just for a little while.”

 

“Hmm,” Minseok says thoughtfully. “Zitao hasn’t said anything about dangerous rogues roaming around.”

 

“What?”

 

“Zitao. He’s some rogue kid who set up camp west of us. You must have seen him, he’s not far away.” Minseok lifts an eyebrow. “We mostly leave each other alone, but I think he’d tell us if there were dangerous criminals walking around these parts.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, I think he would have told us if he saw _you_ walking around these parts.”

 

“Oh, I’m very new,” Luhan rushes to say. 

 

“I see.” Minseok frowns. “Why don’t you go ask Zitao about staying with him? You rogue types get along well.”

 

“Uhhh. I didn’t...want to. Strength in numbers and all that. I thought joining a community temporarily would be my best bet.” Luhan tries to smile again. 

 

Minseok stares hard at him for a moment, then seems to relax. Luhan relaxes with him. “Well, in that case. There’s lots of work to be done around here. I’m sure we can find something for you. You good at anything, Luhan?”

 

“Oh, um. I’m quite...strong?” Luhan offers. “And a very upstanding citizen!”

 

“Yeah, okay. Maybe we can use you on the Building team. I work there during the day.”

 

Luhan grins. Now _that_ he can do. “Yeah. Alright. Sounds good.”

 

Minseok reaches down to pet soothingly at the hair of the girl still hiding behind him. “Come with me, I’ll take you to meet our community leader.”

 

“O-oh. Okay.” Luhan starts sweating immediately. They start walking, and Luhan tries to remember what he and Yifan had planned. “Hey, you guys are big fighters, right?” he blurts. 

 

Minseok glances back at him, now with _both_ eyebrows raised. “We’ve gotten into a few fights,” he concedes. 

 

“You guys ever take prisoners? Like, live ones?” He can’t remember if that was something Yifan told him to say or if he just made that up now. 

 

Minseok hums. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes. Good bargaining leverage.”

 

A thrill runs through Luhan. “Really? Do you have a jail or something?”

 

Minseok turns again, this time to flash a smirk at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, eyebrows dancing mischievously. 

 

Luhan grins back, unable to stop himself. He’s getting somewhere already. But he won’t bother running back to Yifan just yet. He’ll wait until he has something more, something worth saying. He has to gain Minseok’s trust first, pry some details from him. He’s sure he’ll get there fairly soon. Everything is going to plan.

 

***

 

 

“Minseok? Who was that guy I saw you with earlier? I’ve never seen him before.”

 

Minseok snorts, stretching his arms over his head as he prepares for another day of gruelling conjurer practice. “Don’t worry about him,” he tells Jongin. “I’m dealing with it.”

 

“Where did he come from, though?” Jongin asks, looking nervous, like he always does. 

 

“I have no idea,” Minseok says. “You’ll probably see him with me a lot in the next couple days, though. I’m going to be watching him very closely.”

 

 _Rogue, my ass,_ he thinks with another short laugh. Luhan has to be the worst liar Minseok has ever met in his entire life. And a suspiciously curious one, at that. 

 

Thankfully, Minseok just so happens to be an _excellent_ liar. 

 

“If he asks you any questions, don’t answer them,” he tells Jongin, shaking out his hands and cracking his neck. 

 

“Okay,” Jongin says uncertainly. “Oh, Joonmyun and Yixing are heading over here. Are you ready?”

 

Minseok sighs heavily. “Ready as I ever am.”

 

At least today he has something to look forward to after the day’s torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
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> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rzB07aOaO8MdUa212S5bzG4kT7nGS7-VJbY1QPOhMMU/edit?usp=sharing)!


	5. Chapter 5

Baekhyun doesn’t actually tell Sergeant Yunho, or anyone, that he’s decided to join Defense Duty until he hears whispers of another skirmish taking place. And by hears whispers, he means he asked Soojung to keep him updated on what Defense was up to. And by skirmish, he means an offensive strike. 

 

As soon as Soojung tells him that, he approaches Yunho and says he wants to be involved. Yunho looks wary, which makes sense considering Baekhyun has zero experience or training in Defense, but Baekhyun doesn’t take no for an answer. He quickly gets a rundown on how to use and fire a blaster, he gets instructed on weapon use and safety measures, he gets informed on protocol and procedure. Baekhyun nods along through it all, filing away every instruction and warning with a grim set to his lips. 

 

“You sure you’re gonna remember all that?” Hyoyeon says, having spent the last half hour instructing him while the rest of the infantry prepares to leave, still early in the dim hours of dawn. 

 

“I’m sure,” Baekhyun says, palming the blaster on his hip, getting a feel for it. 

 

“Good,” Hyoyeon says firmly. 

 

It’s been a week since Chanyeol disappeared. The sergeant had given his soldiers that much time to recover and prepare for a retaliation. Baekhyun has spent that time tending to his fields, looking after Chanyeol’s plant, and letting his anger and grief fester. He’s been so lonely for the past week, with Chanyeol gone and Yifan and Luhan somewhere out there on a hopeless mission (or at least, Baekhyun assumes that’s where Luhan is), and he’s had so much time to think about everything he’s lost, everything he still has to lose. Every day that passes without Yifan and Luhan’s return is another day in which they might have gotten caught, might have died. Another day in which Baekhyun hopes, despite knowing it won’t be true, that Chanyeol is alive and on his way back.

 

X-22 has taken so much from Baekhyun already, but he won’t let them keep doing it. 

 

He thinks it’s only fair that Q-16 takes something from them, too.

 

They leave early in the morning, all piling onto the truck, squeezing in close together. Baekhyun wears a helmet that’s a little too big on his head, casting his face into shadow, and tries to blend into the crowd of soldiers in case Community Leader comes out to see them off. He stares up at the sky, a hazy blue at this early hour, as they bounce across the path out of the community. He feels the breeze against his cheeks. 

 

That’s his last clear memory. 

 

Afterwards, he remembers bits and pieces, but they don’t all make sense. His armour chafing against his collarbone. The hills south of X-22. Sweat sticky on his back. And then a lot of loud noises. He was in Battalion B. He remembers Battalion B. He remembers the kick of the blaster in his hand. He remembers shooting. He remembers...dirt. He remembers being scared they’d run into Yifan, somehow. That Yifan would get into trouble. But he doesn’t remember why. He doesn’t remember why Yifan would be there. Baekhyun doesn’t remember why _he_ was there, either. It’s all...very disjointed. But he remembers the explosion. He remembers that very clearly. They were fighting...fighting soldiers. They were in charge of soldiers. X-22’s soldiers. The other group was in charge of something else. Battalion A. In charge of something...something else. Taking something. 

 

But there was an explosion. A big one. Bigger than Baekhyun has ever seen in his lifetime. But there was no fire, no smoke or anything like that. Just dirt. Dirt, and then pain, so much pain. Baekhyun remembers being thrown into the air like a ragdoll, and his chest being on fire, and so much pressure, and he couldn’t breathe. 

 

And then a long, blank blackness, such a relief after the chaos and the pain, so sweet. 

 

Of course, when he wakes up again—maybe for the first time, but he’s not sure—everything is chaos and pain again. People are talking loudly, and Baekhyun can taste blood, but he can’t move. He makes a sound, and his arms and legs are being held down. Everything hurts so much, and he can’t breathe properly. It’s terrifying, and he can feel tears on his face. He doesn’t know what’s going on. 

 

A voice in his ear—a woman’s, soft, soothing, someone vaguely familiar but not his mother—tells him to relax, he’ll be okay, everything’s okay. But Baekhyun knows it isn’t okay. He can feel someone probing around in his chest, which is where all the fiery hot pain is coming from. It’s unbearable. Baekhyun’s vision is black at the edges, blurry. 

 

“We’re going to get you fixed up,” says the female voice. 

 

Someone in the background is shouting. “ _If he dies, you die too, do you hear me?_ ”

 

Another voice spits back, “Why the hell should we help you? This is ridiculous.”

 

And then another voice, quiet, saying, “Sir, you’re going to have to keep it down if we’re going to—”

 

“I’m not going to—!”

 

“We have to at least try, it’s our duty—”

 

“He _cannot die, do you understand—!_ ” 

 

“Don’t worry Baekhyun, you’ll be alr—”

 

And then Baekhyun blacks out again. 

 

When he comes to for the second time—barely remembering the first—everything is much calmer. Everything still hurts like a bitch, though. Baekhyun doesn’t open his eyes right away, hoping he’ll be able to sink back into unconsciousness, but he has no such luck. He has to breathe in shallow gasps in order for the pain to be bearable, and it feels like there’s a brick pressing down on his chest. A white-hot brick. With a sharp stake on one side piercing his ribs. 

 

“That’s all we can do for today,” a voice says, nearby but unfamiliar. Baekhyun considers opening his eyes, but can’t bring himself to actually do it. 

 

“I thought you said you could heal him,” says another voice, and oh, Baekhyun knows that one. It’s Community Leader. Oh, shit, he’s in huge trouble. “That you’re healers.”

 

“The body is a healer, sir,” says the quiet voice. “All we can do is...encourage it to heal faster.”

 

“Don’t call him _sir_ , Xing, he doesn’t deserve it,” says a third voice. “He’s a fucking maniac.”

 

“I’m letting you live, aren’t I?” says Community Leader. 

 

“Yeah, in exchange for healing one of the soldiers that tried to kill us,” the spiteful voice says. 

 

The gentler voice says, “Which we can’t do. You have to understand that this is...completely experimental magic. We have _never_ used our abilities to heal a body before. We’ve only ever worked on plants. I’ve heard of it happening—using magic to heal a person—but only by much more experienced sorcerers and conjurers. What we’re doing is...risky. And we can’t guarantee that it’ll work. His body has to do most of the healing on its own.”

 

There’s a brief silence, and then Community Leader says, “It’s not his body I’m concerned about. It’s his mind.” Another pause. “Liyin said there could be mental repercussions. Due to blood loss and the collapsed lung. Not enough oxygen in the brain. She said there could be brain damage.”

 

“Yes,” the quiet voice says. 

 

“She also said he wouldn’t have survived without your help.”

 

“I don’t know about that. We’re not that kind of healer. We just...promote life.”

 

Another long pause. “You know that I don’t trust you.”

 

“Yeah, we got that,” says the bitter voice. 

 

“I do not want to accept your help, much less ask you for it. You have to know that this is the last thing I would ever want to do. So the fact that I am asking you to save him tells you how desperate I am.”

 

“We understand,” says the soft voice. 

 

“Xing, I cannot fucking _believe—_ ”

 

“Joonmyun. We do not have a choice. What are you going to do? Ask him to kill you instead? And me, by extension?”

 

“Like he’s not going to just kill us any— Fuck, Xing, are you okay?”

 

There’s a brief flurry of noise, which ends abruptly. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m okay. I’m fine. Just tired.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Don’t pass out on me, okay? Don’t leave me alone.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Community Leader speaks up again. “I’ll let you two rest. There will be soldiers posted outside the doors, and Liyin will be free to come and go.” He pauses, then says, “If he dies, you die.”

 

“Yeah,” the bitter voice says, now sounding more weary than anything. “What a warm welcome.”

 

Community Leader leaves, but not before a hand brushes through Baekhyun’s hair. He flinches instinctively, but a moment later a door closes. Baekhyun’s head feels foggy, confused. Nothing is quite adding up the way he knows it should. It’s scary, and he wants to fall back asleep. Instead, he opens his eyes, lets out a wheeze. 

 

“Hey, look who’s awake.” A face swims into view above him, haggard but smiling. “Hello, Baekhyun. Nice to meet you.”

 

Baekhyun tries to make a sound in response, but he finds he can’t form words. He panics, feels his heart rate quicken. 

 

“Shhh, shhh. I’m sorry. Don’t talk. I know this is scary for you.” The man talks to him like he’s a baby. Baekhyun hates that. “I’m Yixing. This is my sorcerer partner, Joonmyun.”

 

Baekhyun doesn’t know what that means, exactly, but he’s gathered that these men are paranormal. And if there’s one thing he’s learned in the past nearly four months, it’s that paranormals are not to be trusted. 

 

“It seems like we’re going to be taking care of you, okay? So don’t worry. You’re going to be okay.”

 

“Don’t make promises we can’t keep, Xing,” the other man, Joonmyun, says tiredly. 

 

“You’re going to be fine,” Yixing says anyway, smiling encouragingly. He brushes the hair out of Baekhyun’s eyes in a gesture that’s unnervingly kind. 

 

Baekhyun wants to bat his hand away, he wants to tell this man to stop babying him, stop talking to him like they’re friends, to get _away_ from him, but he can’t. He can’t get his arms to move, he can’t get his tongue to obey, he can barely even breathe, and everything hurts so much. 

 

Tears of panic and fear and confusion well up hot behind his eyes, and Baekhyun hates it, he’s twenty-four years old, he’s a grown man, but he starts to cry anyway. He doesn’t know what’s going on and so many things feel wrong, and he’s so fucking scared, and all that comes out are shallow little sobs and endless stinging tears. He closes his eyes, and he feels soft hands on his face, patting his cheeks dry even as new tears wet them, and all he can do is cry and cry. 

 

He can’t even remember how he got hurt. For Baekhyun, that’s the scariest part.

 

***

 

 

“Something happened this afternoon.” Chanyeol is upon Kyungsoo the moment he steps into the building with his food to start his watch shift. Figuratively. “Don’t pretend nothing happened, because I may be in solitary confinement but I heard all the yelling and the shooting and the _explosion_. What was it?”

 

Kyungsoo sighs, carrying the tray over to him. “I’m not allowed to tell you, Chanyeol.”

 

“Come on, I won’t tell anyone you told,” Chanyeol says, reaching up for the tray to settle it over his lap, leaning against one huge wheel of the Machine. “Skirmishes always take place in the Dead Zone if they’re between our communities. Was it Q-16 or someone else? Or was it an intra-community dispute? Modern civil war. Sounded pretty serious.”

 

Kyungsoo grinds his teeth. Joohyun had been on shift during the attack—Kyungsoo had been asleep, woken up by the sound of shouts and blaster shots. He’d only been filled in a couple hours ago himself. He hadn’t even been able to help. “There was an attack on the community,” is all he says, knowing Chanyeol won’t leave him alone until he gives him _something_. “That’s all I’m telling you.”

 

“Was it my community?” Chanyeol asks, and Kyungsoo can tell he’s going for nonchalance, but he can see the tenseness in his shoulders. “Was it Q-16?”

 

“I’m not going to tell you,” Kyungsoo says, voice carefully deadpan. 

 

“Were they coming after me?” Chanyeol swallows visibly, then starts dunking stale bread into a bowl of thin soup. “Do they even know I’m alive?”

 

Kyungsoo keeps his mouth shut. 

 

Chanyeol sighs softly. “Joohyun wouldn’t tell me shit either.”

 

“We’re not here to pass on news to you, Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo mutters. When Chanyeol doesn’t respond, sulking mightily as he eats, Kyungsoo huffs and looks around at the parts spread out over the floor and the desk they’d set up for him, papers covered in rough sketches and messy handwriting littering the spaces between them. He’d started working on the Machine a couple days ago, as the effects of his concussion wore off. Kyungsoo doesn’t know a single thing about machinery, but since then it’s honestly just looked like Chanyeol is taking things apart and throwing them around to make it look like he’s hard at work. 

 

“Don’t judge my messy workspace,” Chanyeol says, looking up from his meal. “I can feel you judging it from here. Stop that. I only have one working leg.”

 

Kyungsoo grimaces guiltily. It’s not like he’s the one who injured Chanyeol’s shin, but he still feels bad. He knows it’s hard for Chanyeol to get around, even with the makeshift crutch he’d personally made sure he was given. “Feeling better?” he asks instead of saying so. 

 

“Ehhhhh, nah,” Chanyeol says, picking at the bandage wrapped around the wound over the bone. “Hurts like hell. Considering amputation.”

 

“I don’t think that would hurt less,” Kyungsoo says, rolling his eyes and retreating to his seat by the door. There’s a barred door on the building now, welded together sloppily and rusted at the hinges, but he prefers not to keep watch from outside until Chanyeol turns in for the night. It gets annoying, yelling responses to Chanyeol’s incessant questions, even if the answer is usually _I’m not going to tell you._

 

Chanyeol makes a nonsensical gesture with his spoon and looks into the distance. “But then it would never hurt again,” he says with a wistful sigh. 

 

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes a second time, in case Chanyeol didn’t see it the first time. “Splint holding up?”

 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Chanyeol slurps from his bowl obnoxiously. 

 

“Head still hurting?”

 

“On and off.” Chanyeol shrugs. “The bigger problem is concentrating. But that’s always my biggest problem.”

 

Kyungsoo nods slowly. “I’ll try to get some ice for your leg.” He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get it. X-22 has one remaining refrigeration/freezer unit, now hooked up to salvaged solar panels, and although it’s quite large, it’s being shared between the entire community. He wonders if he could ask Chanyeol to look at their more salvageable broken units. 

 

“Awww, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says with a grin. “You do care.”

 

Kyungsoo clenches his jaw. “You’re a prisoner of war, I am guarding you so you don’t escape or do anything bad. Don’t go there.”

 

“Deflections, deflections.” Chanyeol holds his spoon daintily, like the princesses in the films they used to watch in X-22 when they still had a working screen. “I learned something very interesting today.”

 

“Did you?” Kyungsoo says mildly, knowing already that Chanyeol hates it when he seems uninterested in his endless chatter. 

 

Chanyeol is undeterred. “I did,” he says with a grin. “I learned who pulled me out of enemy fire during the battle.”

 

Kyungsoo goes stiff, staring at the Machine over Chanyeol’s shoulder. “Who told you.”

 

“Seulgi let it slip this morning,” Chanyeol says, positively _beaming._ It’s the biggest smile Kyungsoo’s ever seen on his face. Chanyeol smiles a lot, too much for a prisoner of war, but it never reaches his eyes. Kyungsoo knows a coping mechanism when he sees it. “I was being, as she said, _spectacularly obnoxious_ , which I thought was pretty unfair to be frank, and then she muttered a little something about _can’t believe Kyungsoo risked his life to save this guy._ ” Chanyeol looks so damn smug. 

 

“What can I say,” Kyungsoo deadpans. “I’m a selfless guy.”

 

“My _hero,_ ” Chanyeol croons. Then he adds, “Although honestly, in the current situation, I don’t know if I should be thanking you…”

 

“Don’t take it personally. I didn’t even know who you were,” Kyungsoo says, forcing his voice to stay even, bland. It’s the truth, but he still doesn’t want Chanyeol reading into it. 

 

“I guess you could call it love at first sight,” Chanyeol sighs. 

 

“Or maybe, you know, humanity.”

 

Chanyeol snorts slightly, suddenly serious again as he dips his spoon into his soup. “X-22 doesn’t know anything about humanity.”

 

Kyungsoo’s eyebrow hitches against his will. “Oh yeah?”

 

Chanyeol just sticks out his chin, defiant. “Yeah.”

 

“Funny,” Kyungsoo mutters. “We all say that about you guys.”

 

It’s silent for a few moments, and Kyungsoo makes himself comfortable, gearing up for another long, long night. God, he hates this job. 

 

As if reading his mind, Chanyeol blurts, “Is that why you got the worst shift?”

 

Kyungsoo looks up, caught by surprise. “What?”

 

“You obviously got the worst deal, having to stay up all night watching me or whatever. I know Joohyun mentioned once that you took this shift by choice, but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie, because no one takes the night shift unless forced.” Chanyeol finishes his meal, moves the tray off his lap. “Did you get stuck with it because you were stupid enough to save me in the first place?”

 

He’s actually completely right—Kyungsoo not only got the worst shift, but also the _longest_ shift, from 7pm to 5am—but instead of admitting that, he says, “Maybe I just wanted the shift where you would be unconscious for the majority.”

 

Chanyeol snorts. “Maybe I should start shifting my sleep schedule to match up with yours.”

 

“Why, so you can torture me more?” Kyungsoo asks dryly. 

 

Chanyeol shifts, winces as his leg is moved. “You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m a normal person.”

 

Kyungsoo blinks at him, taken aback. For once, it’s Chanyeol who’s avoiding his gaze, staring at his leg stretched out in front of him. He’s uncharacteristically serious, and it makes Kyungsoo swallow nervously. 

 

He can’t think of anything to say, so he stays silent. 

 

Of course, Chanyeol can’t stand being quiet for more than a couple minutes at a time, so it’s not long before he’s groaning, “I’m so booooooored! I’m so bored!”

 

“Imagine what it’s like when I have to sit here and watch you sleep like a creep,” Kyungsoo mutters. 

 

“At least you have the _option_ of doing things. What am I supposed to do? Write a novel in the margins of my drafting paper?” He lights up. “Become the world’s first post-apocalyptic author?”

 

“How do you know you’re the first?” 

 

Chanyeol flaps a hand at him. “I can pretend. No one else has time to be writing novels, so I will take up the cause, locked away as I am in my tower.”

 

“What if I beat you to it, in the long hours of the night while I listen to you snoring?” Kyungsoo asks, the corner of his lips twitching. 

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Chanyeol says fiercely, grabbing the closest paper to him and pretending to scribble on it furiously. “ _There once was a boy named…_ ”

 

“Hanyeol.”

 

Chanyeol snickers, but says, “Hey, no usurping my stories!”

 

“Sorry,” Kyungsoo murmurs, smiling, and falls silent. 

 

Chanyeol, predictably, gives up his act a moment later, letting the paper flutter to the ground. “I’d never have the patience for writing,” he says with a sigh. 

 

“But you have the patience for fixing?” Kyungsoo asks, eyebrows raised. 

 

“Fixing is...productive. It’s messy and it’s challenging and it’s hands-on. I take things apart and put them back together. And I’m good at it.” Chanyeol looks around. “Well. Sometimes I am.”

 

Kyungsoo hums vaguely. He wouldn’t know much about that—being talented at something. He’s a good soldier, he knows he is. He has a decent shot, a cool head in stressful situations. He doesn’t back down easily, he follows orders even when he’s scared. But he’s not _good_ at anything, not in the way that Chanyeol is obviously naturally gifted when it comes to mechanics. Kyungsoo’s only apparent talent is breaking rank when he’s not supposed to. 

 

“Hey, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says suddenly, his expression eager. “Did you save my puzzle box like you said you would?”

 

Kyungsoo sniffs haughtily. “You mean that potential death weapon?”

 

Chanyeol ungracefully snorts, “ _Death weapon._ ” Then he says, “Yeah, that one. Can I have it back yet? I’ve been a good prisoner, I haven’t done anything wrong or sneaky. I think I deserve a reward.”

 

“How do _I_ know you haven’t done anything sneaky?” Kyungsoo asks, just to see the way Chanyeol’s face falls. 

 

“I haven’t!” he insists, loudly. “Come on, Kyungsoo, I know you have it. Give it to meeeeee.”

 

“Your desperation is suspicious.” It should be the truth—Kyungsoo should not be so tempted to give in to his own prisoner’s wishes—but he mostly says it to see Chanyeol’s pout. 

 

“But I’m boooooored. I’m tired of fixing big things. I want to fix little things. Little, harmless, cute puzzle things. Please? Pleasepleaseplease? I can go on all night. I have you for the next nine hours or so. Please, Kyungsoo?”

 

Kyungsoo, never one to be swayed so easily (he’s been living with Sehun for years, after all), crosses his arms and says, “No matter what, you have to wait until I can get someone to stay here while I go fetch the damn thing.”

 

“Aha!” Chanyeol grins. “I knew you had it.”

 

“Of course I have it.” Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. He doesn’t tell Chanyeol that he most definitely is not _supposed_ to have it. Breaking rules is becoming something of a habit for him these days. 

 

To Chanyeol’s immense pleasure, Sehun comes by an hour later, mainly to spend some time with Kyungsoo (since he’s sleeping most of the time Sehun is awake and on shift whenever Sehun isn’t working) but also, Kyungsoo knows, to check up on Chanyeol. He’s not supposed to talk to Chanyeol, per se, but Sehun is too curious about their hostage for his own good. He pokes his head in and smiles, then talks to Kyungsoo for a while before Kyungsoo finally, _finally_ gives in and says, “Sehun, can you stand watch while I go grab my bag from my room?”

 

“Yes!” Chanyeol yells victoriously. 

 

Sehun looks confused, but shrugs his assent, and Kyungsoo leaves his blaster with him while he jogs to their home, where Chanyeol’s precious puzzle box is stashed behind a pile of remaining rubble. 

 

He hears suspiciously fast, heavy breathing on his way there and stops, frowning, to check it out warily. He finds a boy, that paranormal boy—Jongin?—sitting behind his house, half-hidden behind a pile of rusted scrap metal, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking. Kyungsoo grimaces in sympathy. He knows the older two paranormals were taken today in the attack. They’d been targeted specifically—Q-16 had obviously not been happy about their own casualties in the last skirmish, and figured they’d take the only small advantage X-22 had over them. It’s a huge loss, Kyungsoo knows, but he also knows many of the people in the community will be glad to see the paranormals gone. No one trusted them. 

 

He doesn’t really see why, himself. They’d always seemed nothing but complacent and helpful to Kyungsoo. And this young one, Jongin, always seemed so shy and gentle. He waved at Kyungsoo once, flustered and hesitant. It was cute. 

 

“You okay?” he asks softly, even though he knows the answer. 

 

Jongin looks up, startled, and wraps his arms more tightly around himself. “What?” he croaks. 

 

“Nothing,” Kyungsoo says. “I’m—I’m sorry. About. Yeah.”

 

Jongin doesn’t answer, just buries his face in his knees again, but Kyungsoo hopes it still helps, anyway, knowing that not everyone is secretly happy about his loss. 

 

He goes inside, grabs Chanyeol’s beloved puzzle box, and hurries back to his post. 

 

Chanyeol gets a little teary-eyed, holding that useless hunk of crap in his hands again, and he literally falls asleep that night still holding it, propped up against his desk. Kyungsoo rolls his eyes and drags a blanket over to cover him with a sigh. This is his life now. Awkwardly comforting heartbroken paranormal boys and watching prisoners tinker with broken shit. 

 

To be fair, watching Chanyeol’s broad, square hands delicately handle tiny gears and take things apart piece by piece is kind of mesmerizing. But Kyungsoo sure as hell isn’t going to tell _him_ that.

 

***

 

 

Jongin doesn’t know what to do after Joonmyun and Yixing are taken. It’d all been...so confusing. So chaotic. It had been too early in the day for him and Minseok to be training with the older paranormals, but they’d been practicing on their own, Jongin desperate to convince Minseok not to abandon him in the following few days when their agreed week was up. They weren’t making progress, exactly, but Jongin was getting better at controlling the flow of energy into Minseok’s body, and Minseok was getting more comfortable with the feeling of it. There was still pushback, though, Minseok was still too overwhelmed to do anything really helpful and he never felt like he _wanted_ to do anything helpful. And Jongin frequently still hurt him with how much energy he was pushing into him by accident, which certainly didn’t help.

 

But that isn’t important, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that earlier in the day, while they were practicing, Jongin felt a sudden wave of malicious intent, the hot and heavy energy of anger and determination, coming up from the south. It was pure instinct that caused him to yell and start running, leaving Minseok to run after him in confusion. The first blaster shot had rung out almost immediately, and fear lodged itself in Jongin’s throat. 

 

By the time they were close enough to see what was happening, there were already two struggles taking place. One east of the community, where soldiers were facing off viciously, blasters in hand, and one farther south, a smaller group of Sixers against two unarmed men. 

 

He lunged towards them, but Minseok held him back. He yelled something in Jongin’s ear, but Jongin barely heard him. He had to do something. He had to _help_. 

 

For several minutes, he stood and watched as soldiers fell, as the only people he could still call family were forced to the ground helplessly. And then...something happened. At the time, and even afterwards, Jongin couldn’t explain it. He didn’t understand it. All he knew was that he felt a sudden rush of energy flooding into him, dark energy that didn’t feel familiar in his veins, aided by his panic and his fear, and without thinking he wielded it, pushed it into Minseok’s body, lighting up like he was on fire. 

 

And the next thing he knew, there was an explosion. He felt the energy pouring out of him, transformed through his conjurer, but he didn’t understand it, didn’t know what was happening. But the very ground erupted, torn up with explosive force, right in the middle of the Sixer soldiers, throwing them into the air. Combatting the anger, the dangerous energy, that Jongin felt there. It all happened so suddenly, he never got a grasp on what he was doing, what _they_ were doing. All he knew was that, by the time the dust settled, the soldiers attacking Joonmyun and Yixing were retreating with two bodies in tow. And Jongin was so scared, so confused, and he couldn’t do it again. He didn’t know how to do it again. He couldn’t save them. 

 

Which is why he sits here now, hiding behind his house, lost and completely alone. 

 

Now, finally, the reality of it sets in. They’re gone. The only people he _knew_ , the only people who _liked_ him, his only family, who understood him and loved him. 

 

He finally breaks down after the soldier, the older brother, comes and goes with a few sympathetic words and looks. He’s not sure why that triggers it, but the numbness falls away in an instant, and instead of just sitting there shaking against the wall, now he’s sobbing. He’s sobbing and he’s pulling energy into himself, pulling it up from the ground, sometimes reaching deep into the earth to wrench it up into him even though he doesn’t want to, it hurts, it’s running through him with such excruciating power. But in a way, he does want to. He’s so lost and so scared and alone and it makes him feel so empty. He was so numb before, but now he _wants_ to hurt, he thinks maybe he _deserves_ to hurt, he didn’t save them, he couldn’t, he didn’t do anything right. He can never do anything right. 

 

“Jongin? Jongin, what the hell.” A voice filters through the crushing pain of everything, reminding Jongin that he can’t just sit there and hope, secretly, that he destroys himself. 

 

“Go away,” he sobs, covering his face with his hands. 

 

“No, Jongin, what the— What are you doing out here?”

 

“Leave me alone.” Jongin’s voice comes out choked, weak, pitiful. 

 

“I’m not going to _leave you alone_.” Minseok sounds unimpressed, condescending. Jongin hates him so much in that moment. “It’s time for supper. What are you gonna do, just sit out here feeling sorry for yourself forever?”

 

“Leave me _alone!_ ” Jongin says again, voice rising. He lifts his face, glares at Minseok through his tears. 

 

“Why should I?” Minseok challenges, hands on his hips. 

 

Jongin breaks. “What do you _want_ from me? What more can you possibly want from me?” he yells, desperate, _angry._ “What do you want me to do? Ruin your life some more? Ruin someone else’s life? Haven’t I done enough already?”

 

“Yeah, Jongin, your life is really hard,” Minseok says, infuriatingly even. 

 

“I have _nothing_ , Minseok! I have nothing! I have no friends, I have no family, I have—I have _nothing._ I couldn’t save them and I couldn’t—I killed my own _parents._ I killed them. I was sick and they were so weak and they tried to save me and they _died._ And it was my fault. I killed them. And now I have nothing left.”

 

“So you’re just going to roll with that? Just accept it and turn in?”

 

“What do I do?” Jongin demands, voice hoarse from shouting. “What do I do? What do I do?” He’s desperate now, tears soaking the collar of his shirt. “What do I do? What do I—” His voice breaks. “What do I _do?_ ” It comes out quieter, a plea. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

“Get up,” Minseok orders. 

 

Jongin staggers to his feet blindly, weak and trembling. The energy has stopped searing through him. 

 

“Now stop crying like a baby,” Minseok spits. 

 

Jongin slaps him. Open-palmed, right across the cheek, a crack of skin on skin. 

 

“Wow, _fuck._ ” Minseok cradles his face, eyes squeezed shut, and Jongin feels a flare of victory, of triumph. When Minseok looks up again, though, he’s smiling. “Good. It’s good to know you can do something other than wallow in your own pity and self-loathing.”

 

“What?” Jongin croaks, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

 

“Come on,” Minseok says instead of answering. “Let’s go eat supper. You should know by now to never, ever pass up food when it’s available to you.”

 

Jongin lets out a shuddering breath, but stumbles after Minseok when he starts walking. 

 

“We’ll figure things out,” Minseok says, voice hard in front of him. “And I’ll concede that I was being harsh about the crying. Crying can be very therapeutic. Just don’t let yourself get carried away.”

 

Jongin makes a small, whimpering sound, feeling like he’s been wrung out like a wet towel. “Are you dropping me?” he asks, his voice grating through his sore throat. 

 

Minseok huffs. “This community needs at least one magical freak team, doesn’t it?”

 

Jongin swallows hard. “We don’t know what we’re doing.”

 

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe turn to a life of blowing stuff up instead. That was pretty wild.” Minseok glances back at him. “Any idea how the fuck we managed that, by the way?”

 

Jongin lets out a short, barely-there laugh. “None.”

 

Minseok hums. “We’ll figure it out,” he says again, and then leads the way to the community center for supper. 

 

Jongin still feels lost, and alone, and scared, but he supposes Minseok was right about one thing. Wallowing will get him nowhere. 

 

“ _Didn’t have to be such a dick about it, though_ ,” he mutters to himself as they sit down at their table together. 

 

He only realizes later, when he’s numbly crawling into bed, that he forgot to be surprised that Minseok came to look for him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d_RHs8pmSDb8QfBsFL6dbIazbQodlns1mHE68qQ0CNQ/edit)!


	6. Chapter 6

After a week of camping out on his own on the outskirts of X-22 and seeing neither hide nor hair of Luhan in all that time, Yifan seriously starts to worry. And also go out of his mind with boredom. He had expected, when sending Luhan in for recon, to only have to withstand radio silence for a day or two, and then for his friend to return and fill him in on everything he’d learned. 

 

But it’s been over double that, and Yifan is just sitting around on his own waiting for Luhan to come back out of enemy territory, and hell if that isn’t the best way to kill someone of anxiety. He just sits there, baking in the sun, trying to keep himself busy, idly thinking about what Luhan might be doing, if he’s in trouble, if he’s been found out, if he’s been _killed_. If Yifan’s frankly rash decision to go to X-22 to look for Chanyeol has cost him another close friend, because he trusted Yifan too much. If Luhan dies because of him, Yifan doesn’t know what he’s going to do. 

 

To add to that, Yifan is practically out of supplies for himself. He hadn’t expected to be away for so long. He’d expected to go in, find Chanyeol (or not, but he tries to avoid that direction of thinking), break him out, and get him back home. But now he’s stuck in the hills south of X-22 with his dwindling rations, alone, waiting for word back from Luhan, worrying, and also starving, unable to return home without both of them. 

 

And to top it off, he witnessed an attack on X-22 just the previous day, and although he’d been too busy hiding to really see who was heading the offensive strike, he has a sneaking suspicion it was his own community, which makes him worry for Luhan’s safety even more. 

Where the hell _is_ that guy? Why hasn’t he reported back yet? He must know Yifan is worrying about him.

 

In the end, Yifan realizes he can’t just wait for his food to run out completely and then just waste away. He sits around for half a day contemplating the best strategy from here, then turns his gaze northwest to the little rogue camp there. It’s a tiny, shabby-looking thing—he’s done a bit of recon of his own, creeping up as close as he can while still under cover and checking the place out—and as far as he can tell, it’s just one person living there. Rogues tend to travel alone, by definition of the word. They’re one man (or woman) shows. They fend for themselves. 

 

But Yifan, practically crippled by his own loneliness after less than a week of solitary camping, figures maybe, just maybe, whoever it is living out there could use a companion, too. He figures it’s worth a chance, at least. If the rogue tells him to get lost, Yifan has no trouble following orders. (Well, unless those orders are to not go on a forbidden rescue mission.)

 

He approaches in the heat of the afternoon, figuring broad daylight is the least threatening way to go. He feels anxious and exposed, in plain view from the community if anyone were to look westwards, but nothing happens as he creeps uncomfortably towards the camp. He stops about twenty meters away, on the other side of a meticulously tended garden, thriving with vegetables Yifan honestly doesn't know all the names of. "Um," he calls, clearing his throat. "Hello? Anyone...home?"

 

No sound comes out of the little structure that is obviously serving as a house. It's more of a tent, if he thinks about it, thick fabric stretched over what looks like fiberglass poles, although Yifan has never seen a tent in real life prior to this. There was no need for tents underground.

 

"Hello?" he calls again, increasingly uncertain. There has to be someone living here, right? The garden looks freshly hoed. "I was wondering if—"

 

The door flap of the tent rustles, and a man—boy?—with tousled black hair steps out, blinking sleepy eyes. "What? Who are you?"

 

Yifan stares. He hadn't expect someone so...young. "Um. I'm just passing through. Who are _you?_ "

 

The man stares back. "Zitao," he says eventually. "I live here."

 

"Oh." Well, Yifan had expected that, of course. "Alone?"

 

Immediately, Zitao crosses his arms across his chest in a defensive stance. "Why do you need to know that?"

 

"Huh? Oh, no, I just..." Yifan fumbles. "I'm sorry. I'm just. I've been travelling around this area on my own, and I'm completely out of supplies. I was wondering...well. It looks like you have a lot for one person." He winces. That sounds totally presumptuous, but he doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't want to hem and haw about what he's really after.

 

Zitao sniffs, jutting out his chin. "I'm not exactly running a charity. And I don't even know you."

 

"I wouldn't ask you to just give me food for nothing in return!" Yifan says, appalled by the idea. Food, especially fresh fruits and vegetables, are hard enough to come by as it is.

 

“They’re not for sale,” Zitao says resolutely. “This is my land, I grew it here with my own hands.”

 

“This is _your_ land?” Yifan raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know rogues could _own_ land.”

 

Zitao looks haughty, cocking his hip. “I traded for it,” he says, nodding towards X-22. “So it’s mine now.”

 

“Traded what?” Yifan can’t help but ask. What could this kid have had that X-22 wanted enough to trade him fertile land for? 

 

Zitao taps his head with a small quirk of a smile. “Knowledge. Their community didn’t know shit about growing plants. We did. So we traded them our knowledge about growing for enough land for our own garden, and immunity. They agreed not to bother us, we agreed to help them out. It was a fair trade.”

 

Several questions immediately bounce around Yifan’s skull, but it’s the bitter side of him that says, “Who says they won’t kill you now that they have that information and take the land back?”

 

Zitao looks surprised, maybe even a little amused. “Because they’re decent humans…?”

 

Yifan scoffs. “Sure,” he says scornfully. Then, before Zitao can even attempt to defend X-22, he says, “Anyway, who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about? Before, you referred to it as _your_ land. Singular.”

 

That makes Zitao pause, visibly uncertain. Then he says, “I used to live here with my...sister.”

 

The hesitation before the word makes Yifan doubt that, but he doesn’t bother pushing. “And?”

 

“She was killed,” Zitao says simply, too blunt for how his own words make him flinch. Still a raw wound, then. “There was a raid. Not from this community,” he says quickly when Yifan admittedly jumps to blame them. “It wasn’t them. It was someone else. That bastard neighbouring community, I’m guessing.”

 

Yifan’s jaw clicks shut. Shit. Shit shit shit. 

 

Q-16 had _definitely_ been involved in raids in the past, especially in the first weeks after their second surfacing, when they’d been nothing short of desperate for food. They hadn’t been the first group to resurface after the plague—many smaller groups had already done so months before them, and were already thriving. While Q-16 had been waiting for their first crops to grow, they’d been starving, and willing to do anything to feed their people for another day. Raids, mainly on groups who were pro-paranormal and had more supplies to show for it, but also on anyone they could find, had been the only way they were staying alive day to day. Yifan is...not exactly proud of the things they’d done back then. There hadn’t been a lot of casualties, but even if there had been, he probably would have turned a blind eye to them. Everything was so new and terrifying to him back then. What else was he supposed to do?

 

Regardless of whether it was Q-16 or some other community, Yifan knows he’s going to have to change his plans on how to appeal to Zitao. Because until now he’d been planning on telling the truth. 

 

As if sensing his sudden mental panic, Zitao looks Yifan up and down and says, “What are you doing out here, anyway? If you’re looking to buy or trade for food, you’re better off talking to the community leader. I can put you in touch with her, if you’re interested.”

 

“No!” Yifan says, mind spinning for a convincing lie. “I was just. I was wondering if I could...stay with you. For a while.”

 

Zitao gives him an assessing look, bordering on suspicious. “Why?”

 

If Zitao is offering to speak with the community leader for Yifan, that must mean they have a positive relationship, that he _trusts_ her. Technically, any ally of X-22 is an enemy of Yifan’s, but he’ll have to make an exception today. But this also means he shouldn’t imply that he’s spying on the community, lest Zitao brings _that_ to the community leader. “I’m just, you know. Passing through. But I’m short on supplies, and could use a place to rest for a while.”

 

“So why can’t you get it from them?” Zitao asks, gesturing towards the community. 

 

Yifan scrambles for a plausible excuse. “Aren’t they pro-paranormal?” he ventures. 

 

Zitao’s lips twist. “So? As rogues, isn’t the point that we don’t belong to either side?”

 

“No, of course!” Yifan says. Agreeing is probably the best way to go, here. “Of course. But what I mean is, as a neutral party, I’d rather not get involved in the...the drama. Of a community that’s chosen a side. Choosing sides tends to start fights. I’d rather not be a part of that.”

 

Zitao gives him another assessing look, but this one looks less like he’s wondering how much heat Yifan is packing. (He’s suddenly glad his blaster is concealed.) “I know what you mean,” Zitao says finally, and Yifan has to force himself not to visibly deflate with relief. “We left our group to get away from fighting, too.”

 

“Which group?” Yifan asks automatically. 

 

But Zitao shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. As rogues, we belong to no one but ourselves, right?”

 

“Right,” Yifan agrees automatically. 

 

“So what’s your plan?” Zitao asks, cocking his head to the side. “Come here, eat my food, then leave?”

 

Yifan gulps. “Of course not. I’ll pull my weight while I’m here. I have capable hands.”

 

Zitao clucks his tongue. “What if I don’t need your help?”

 

“I’m sure you don’t,” Yifan relents, because honestly, it looks like this guy is doing more than fine on his own. He’s obviously growing enough food for a small family at least. Tentatively, he says, “But maybe you wouldn’t mind the company?”

 

Zitao freezes, and Yifan knows he’s struck a chord. He just doesn’t know if that’s a good thing until the man sighs and says, “I wouldn’t mind, I guess.”

 

Yifan grins. 

 

“But,” Zitao says quickly, cutting him off. “I want to know more about you. I don’t go around letting strangers into my home and giving them my food while knowing nothing about them.”

 

Yifan winces internally. Shit. Shit. He so did not prepare a backstory for this. “Yeah, I understand,” he says, trying to buy himself some time. 

 

“Where are you headed?” Zitao asks. “I’ve never seen you around these parts before.”

 

“I’m not from around here,” Yifan says, resigning himself to making up lies as he goes. He really hopes he doesn’t screw this up and give himself away. “I’m...looking for someone.” That’s true enough.

 

“Looking for who?”

 

“My family,” is Yifan’s automatic, clichéd response. Guh. Good enough. 

 

Zitao’s eyebrows lift. “Aren’t you going the wrong way, then, if you left your community?”

 

“No, I...I lost them.”

 

Zitao looks less than impressed, and Yifan can’t blame him. He is really not at the top of his game right now. He hopes he can blame the sweating on the heat. 

 

“During the first surfacing,” Yifan improvises as he goes. “I lost them. We joined up with another community, and when we all retreated when the plague struck, we got separated into different bunkers. I’ve been looking for them ever since.”

 

God, that’s terrible. Yifan can’t believe he just said that. How would a kid even get lost like that? You don’t just _lose a kid._ It’s not like the plague was a sudden, one-day disaster or anything, there was no mad scramble back to their bunkers. Maybe this kid is too young to remember it at all? Was he even born then?

 

Despite Yifan’s instant regret, Zitao seems to buy it for the time being. “That must be hard,” he says. “How old were you?”

 

“Four,” Yifan lies. He was definitely older than that when they first surfaced, but he figures he has more reason to be completely lost as to how to find his fictional family if he was younger at the time. Zitao doesn’t need to know how old he is now.

 

“Your family must miss you. I hope you find them,” Zitao says, looking genuinely sympathetic. Yifan almost wants to laugh. 

 

“Yeah,” he says gruffly instead. “Anyway, I left my old community when things started getting...violent. I didn’t have anywhere to go, though, so I’ve been scouring the area for the family I barely remember. You know? They’re all I have left.”

 

Zitao nods. “I understand what it’s like to lose your family,” he says softly. “If I could bring mine back, I would.”

 

Yifan winces. _Oh._ He hadn’t meant to reopen old wounds. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmurs. 

 

Zitao merely shrugs, even if his expression is broken. “Have you tried searching the land around your old bunker?”

 

“I don’t remember where it was,” Yifan says, offering an embarrassed shrug while inwardly applauding his forethought in painting himself as a toddler at the time. “I don’t even remember the number. I think maybe it was a Y?”

 

Zitao frowns. “Never met any Y bunkers before. Did they even build any after X? I thought funding got cut.”

 

Shit. Yifan has no idea. “I could be wrong,” he says weakly. 

 

Thankfully, Zitao sighs and doesn’t interrogate him further. “I suppose you can stay here before moving on to keep searching,” he says, and Yifan has to refrain from fist pumping. “But I expect you to help me in return, alright?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Yifan says, breaking out into a grin. “I really appreciate it.”

 

Zitao nods slowly. “We rogues have a reputation for being dangerous, which I find funny. We only help those who are pacifists like ourselves. Right?”

 

Yifan’s grin falters, and he tries to pretend he’s not breaking into a sweat again. 

 

So he probably shouldn’t tell Zitao he’s a soldier, then.

 

***

 

Luhan is going out of his mind.

 

When he had agreed to go into X-22 to do recon, he hadn’t exactly been expecting a warm welcome. After all, everything he heard about their neighbouring community was negative. That they’re greedy, and selfish, and cruel, and heartless. So he hadn’t gone in thinking he would be greeted with open arms. 

 

Except that he _had._ His welcome _had_ been warm, against all odds. The problem now is literally that the welcome had been _too_ warm; the arms had been _too_ open. Luhan can’t catch a fucking break. 

 

Minseok, the man Luhan first met upon entering the community, had thrown himself into the role of Luhan’s new caretaker with great gusto. He had set up a job for Luhan—Building, just like he had been in Q-16, right alongside Minseok himself for part of the day. He also got Luhan hooked up with a room—his own. He literally has Luhan sleeping in the same room as him, right between Minseok and the wall. Not only that, but he checks in on Luhan periodically throughout the day, “making sure he’s alright,” and not only that, but he has several of his fellow Builders checking in on Luhan as well when he can’t do it himself. 

 

“It’s my job to make sure you’re following rules,” Minseok says with a broad smile, clapping a hand on Luhan’s shoulder. “We’re pretty strict around here, so I don’t want you to stand out or anything. We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about you.”

 

“Yeah,” Luhan always agrees weakly. “Thanks.”

 

He has to follow the rules to the tee, Minseok says. Up at 6am. Breakfast at 6:30 (they call it _breakfast_ here, which Luhan finds funny every time). Working at 7. Lunch at noon. Then back to work at 12:30. Minseok leaves work at 4 to do god knows what. Luhan keeps working with the Builders until supper at 6. Minseok always makes a point to seek him out, eat with him, talk to him. Sometimes he’s free after supper, sometimes not—if he is, he joins Luhan for the evening, insisting Luhan helps him take care of his baby sister until his parents (they do _parents_ here, rather than primary and secondary caregivers) are free to look after her. If he’s busy or whatever, someone else inevitably shows up to get Luhan to help with this or that, keeping him busy, keeping an eye on him. 

 

As soon as night falls, Minseok shows up, tells Luhan that it’s curfew. They’re to be inside and sleeping by 10:00. Anyone spotted outside after nightfall is in huge trouble, Minseok tells him time and time again. In the dark, he could even be mistaken for an intruder. Their watchmen, Minseok says, are given permission to shoot first and ask questions later. That’s why it’s important that no one goes out at night. 

 

And even if Luhan wanted to, Minseok sleeps between him and the door every night. And Luhan’s not about to climb over him to sneak away, and then try to explain himself when Minseok wakes up. 

 

It’s torture. It’s _utter torture._ Luhan knows he should have reported back to Yifan ages ago. He knows his friend is probably worried sick over him. But Luhan can’t slip away for even a minute without someone asking him where he’s been. He has eyes on him constantly, _all day_. He knows they’re just being hospitable, just looking out for him as the new guy, but _honestly._ He has no privacy whatsoever. There are literally people standing outside the door when he goes to the bathroom. He practically has an entourage. 

 

Yesterday, he couldn’t even leave his post to see what the commotion was when he heard shooting and yelling and fucking _explosions._ He doesn’t even know who it was, because although Minseok wasn’t with him at the time—he was off doing his _other job,_ apparently, which Luhan had only then realized he knew nothing about—there had been other people holding him back, insisting he keep working, it would be taken care of. Minseok didn’t tell him anything that night, either, when he’d returned to fetch him after supper. 

 

So he can’t leave. He’s still working on figuring out some way to slip out of the community unnoticed, but for the time being, it seems impossible. At least, until the people of X-22 stop seeing him as the new guy.

 

In the meantime, he continues to try to learn about the inner workings of the community, and, more importantly, the prisoner situation. 

 

“So what’s the military like in this community?” he asks in the evening, once Minseok has shepherded him back to what has become _their_ room. He tries his best to aim for casual. “I feel like I haven’t seen them at all, but you must have one, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah, we do,” Minseok says, stripping out of his work clothes to drop them on the floor. Luhan clears his throat and looks away. “They’re actually really strong. Really put-together, you know? I considered joining the military, but I don’t have the right kind of discipline for it. Plus, my little sister joined, and someone had to take care of the baby.”

 

“But your sister doesn’t live with you,” Luhan says, getting sidetracked. “And neither do your parents.”

 

“Yeah. Kids move out of their parents’ homes when they reach eighteen, usually. To learn independence. My sister moved in with me when she came of age, but then she got herself a partner and moved in with her instead, so now I’m a lonely bachelor again.” He looks at Luhan with a grin, and Luhan realizes he’d been staring at Minseok’s biceps until now. Oops. “Well, until you showed up, and I got a new roommate.”

 

“O-oh. Yeah.” Luhan manages a smile in response. 

 

“Anyway, they’re still my family, obviously, but they’re no longer my family _unit._ In fact, technically, you’re in my family unit now.” Minseok shoots him another grin, and Luhan gulps. “So I keep watching Yejoo, because she’s my sister, but I don’t have to live with her. Now, of course, my main priority is _you._ Family unit comes first, then family, then peers.”

 

“Right,” Luhan croaks. God, he’s never going to be able to get away from this guy. Also, why the fuck is he so muscular? He literally has the exact same job as Luhan, unless his mysterious “other job” is professional weightlifting. 

 

“Anyway, why were you asking about the military?” Minseok asks, _finally_ pulling on his nightclothes. They’re loose and soft and make him look about ten years younger—Luhan has the exact same ones, community-issued, but he feels like they don’t have the same effect. 

 

“Oh, right, yeah. It was nothing. I was just curious, is all,” Luhan says. “What kind of, like, jobs do they have? I know you mentioned watchmen. Is that part of the military? Or does the military only, you know, attack people?” He pauses, adds, “And take them hostage.”

 

“It’s all military,” Minseok says. “They all take turns, I think. My sister’s talked about watchman duty before, she hates it. Boring as hell, apparently.”

 

“Does she ever guard prisoners?” Luhan asks. “That sounds less boring.”

 

Minseok shrugs, sits down on his bed mat and stretches. “Dunno. She doesn’t talk to me a lot about her job. Mostly just blabbers about her partner.” Minseok rolls his eyes. 

 

Luhan grinds his teeth. Minseok’s always talking to him, all day, but he’s never saying anything important. 

 

“Guard duty can’t be hard, though,” Minseok says suddenly. “There’s just one door. I think I heard the holding cell is underground.”

 

Luhan lights up. “Really? Where?”

 

But Minseok shrugs again. “Dunno. I’m a Builder, not a guard.”

 

Well, fuck. But at least Luhan is getting somewhere. 

 

Finally, Minseok is telling him things worth knowing.

 

***

 

Luhan totally buys Minseok’s lie about an underground prisoner cell. Which is ridiculous, because why the hell would they have an underground prisoner cell? Who would do that?

 

But then again, Luhan buys every ridiculous lie Minseok tells him without question. Which is good, because if he didn’t, it’d be a lot harder to keep an eye on him all day, even when Minseok is busy. He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to convince people to watch over his new roommate for him, but for now, it’s amusing to watch him look exasperated at every new rule and restraint Minseok piles on him.

 

Plus, Luhan’s kind of cute when he’s flustered about being caught in a lie. A mistake Minseok would never, ever make himself, but an endearing look on this amateur. 

 

Now if only he could figure out what the hell Luhan is doing in their community. The guy gets all touchy and closed-up if Minseok tries to pry.

 

But no matter. They have time. Minseok isn’t letting him out of his sight anytime soon. 

 

And in the meantime, it looks like Minseok has resigned himself to 10 hours of enforced sleep every night. 

 

Well. It could be worse.

 

***

 

Baekhyun feels numb.

 

It's bizarre, because he's in the most pain he's ever felt in his life. His chest is burning with a blinding pain, he can barely breathe, he thinks he has other, smaller injuries littered across his body. But those all feel so far away. Like he's barely connected to his body.

 

"Baekhyun, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me, okay? I can't get a good diagnosis unless you talk me through what you're feeling," says Liyin, sitting next to his bed, holding his hand. She's a good healer, but Baekhyun knows she won't be able to fix him.

 

"I alr’dy told you what I'm feeling," Baekhyun says, hating how much of a struggle it is. He has to pick the words one by one out of his brain, string them together like pieces of a puzzle, remember how to form them on his tongue, force them clumsily out of his mouth. One sentence is exhausting. He doesn't want to talk anymore.

 

"No you didn't, honey. You stopped in the middle. Remember?"

 

Baekhyun clenches his jaw, feels hot tears of frustration and fear well up again. "When?" he asks, even though he knows he doesn't want to hear the answer.

 

"Just a minute ago," Liyin says softly, apologetically.

 

Baekhyun wants to scream, but instead he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to draw steady, shallow breaths. Sobbing hurts too much to let himself get caught up in his emotions. "What did I...say?" he asks, struggling to find the right words. It feels like he's speaking a foreign language, like he hasn't been speaking it for his entire life. He has to grasp at simple vocabulary as it tries to slip away from him.

 

"You were talking about your memory loss," Liyin reminds him, squeezing his hand.

 

"I don't remember," Baekhyun whimpers, and he means that he can't recall ever talking about it, but he honestly can't remember so much. There are so many holes in his memory, so many things missing, and the holes multiply every time he pokes at them. He lies in bed all day, trying to reassure himself that he hasn't forgotten everything, and all he does is work himself into panic after panic because it's _gone._ So much is gone.

 

He wants to tell Liyin that, because she's waiting for an explanation, she's waiting for him to tell her about these kinds of things, but it's so _hard_. It's so hard.

 

"Can you try to explain your symptoms to me, Baekhyun?" Liyin prompts, like she thinks he's forgotten what they're talking about. Again.

 

"I can't think," Baekhyun says quietly, and it comes out like a slurred whine. "My...brain. Doesn't work right."

 

"How so?" Liyin asks.

 

"Nothin’ is...c’nnecting right. I don't. I don't know why." Baekhyun's breath hitches, and it makes his chest ache.

 

"Your ribs broke in the explosion," Liyin says gently. "One of them pierced a lung, and it collapsed. You also lost a lot of blood, and you started going into shock. Not enough oxygen was reaching your brain. There was some brain damage because of it."

 

"I can't have...brain dam’ge," Baekhyun hiccups. "My brain is all I _have._ "

 

"We're trying to fix it, okay? It'll be okay. Can you tell me about your other symptoms?"

 

He's starting to notice so many. The limb weakness—he can barely move on his own, his grip is pitiful, he feels like he doesn't have proper control of his own body. And then the tremors. The involuntary jerking. The slurred speech. The dizziness, the constant vertigo if he tries to sit up. But the majority of his difficulties are in his head. It’s so hard to concentrate, everything is so muddled and confusing, every thought process is a struggle. He forgets what he’s talking about in the middle of a sentence, he zones out against his will. He skips words, repeats them, uses the wrong one. It takes him too long, sometimes, to process what people are saying, even when it’s simple and straightforward. Sometimes it takes him a few minutes to remember where he is, why he’s there, and why there are two men holding his hands and asking him where he’s feeling the most pain. 

 

Sometimes, Liyin gives him three words to remember, and then asks him the date and his name and her name, and then she asks for the words again, and he can’t even remember her giving him any. 

 

The only thing he _can_ remember, with startling clarity, is Community Leader yelling at him. “I can’t _believe_ you would do this,” he said, when Baekhyun was finally coherent enough to respond. “You could have _died_. You almost _did_ die. Why would you do something like that?”

 

“Just wanted t’ help,” Baekhyun said, voice small. 

 

“And you thought putting yourself in danger would help? How does that make sense, Baekhyun?”

 

“Wasn’ my...fault,” Baekhyun objected softly. 

 

“It _was_ your fault that you were there at all! I’ve told you a _hundred times_ why you’re not allowed on defense. Why wouldn’t you listen to me?” Community Leader’s eyes were wild. “You’re important, Baekhyun, remember? We cannot afford to lose you.”

 

It hurt then, and it hurts now. Baekhyun knows he deserved the scolding—would have deserved a beating, probably, if he’d been well enough—but it still stings. The reminder that he’d be missed more as an asset to the community than as a person. He knew it all along, but it’s painful to hear it again. 

 

It’s been repeating over and over in his mind since he first realized it. The only thing he’s wanted for is his brain. And now he’s ruined that. 

 

“Baekhyun?”

 

Baekhyun blinks, gulps, closes his eyes. “‘M sorry. What were we...talking ‘bout?”

 

Liyin is silent for a few seconds, and then she squeezes Baekhyun’s hand. “You should rest a while. The boys will be in soon, they’re just napping.”

 

“What boys?” Baekhyun mumbles. 

 

“The paranormal boys. They’re going to try to encourage your ribs to heal.”

 

“Useless...ribs,” Baekhyun says, then coughs and starts crying because it hurts _so much._ “Brain,” he manages to grind out. 

 

“Your mind won’t start healing until the rest of your body does. Plus, internal injuries are a genuine worry for now.”

 

“Whatev’r,” Baekhyun says with a breathy, shallow sigh. “Gonna...sleep.”

 

“Alright, hon. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

 

“Kay,” Baekhyun mutters, and then lets his body relax and tries to doze off. 

 

He’s roused sometime later to the feeling of cool, soft hands wrapping around his fingers. He blinks groggily, groans. 

 

“Hello again,” says the quiet man, smiling his quiet smile. It always takes Baekhyun a while to remember his name. Something with a Y. Sometimes he accidentally calls him Liyin. He always laughs at that. 

 

“Ffffff,” Baekhyun says, because he breathed in too deep and now he feels like that hot spiky brick is back. 

 

“That’s right, we’re going to work on that today,” says the man. Yixing, right. Baekhyun is pleased with how quickly he remembered it. “How are those ribs feeling?”

 

“Really...f’ckin bad,” Baekhyun says. Yixing holds both of his hands gently, and his smile is warm. Baekhyun still wants to punch him for treating him like a baby, but he’s pretty sure it’ll take a few months for him to feel up to it. 

 

“Hopefully they’ll feel a little less bad after this session,” Yixing says, still smiling. 

 

Baekhyun grunts quietly, watches as Yixing makes himself comfortable and the other one—Joon something, Joon...Joon. Baekhyun just calls him Joon in his head. He stands behind Yixing, looking dour as usual. “We don’t have to be holding his hands to do this,” he says grumpily. “We don’t hold the plants’ leaves, do we?”

 

Something about the word _plant_ sets off alarms in Baekhyun’s head. He’s supposed to remember something about that, he’s sure of it. But when he probes at the thought, it collapses into blankness, and he’s left feeling bereft and empty again. 

 

“Shush, Joon,” Yixing says. Balls. How will Baekhyun ever learn his name if Yixing doesn’t say the full thing? “The plants aren’t injured humans.”

 

Joon scoffs. “Well, I’m not holding anyone’s hands.”

 

“You don’t have to. Both of mine and Baekhyun’s are already occupied,” Yixing quips. They seem so comfortable together. Baekhyun wants that, too, all of a sudden. To talk to someone he’s comfortable with. He’s only seen these two and Liyin and Community Leader in the past...well, since the explosion. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s all. Has his mother come by?

 

“Here we go, Baekhyun,” Yixing says, turning his warm gaze back to him. “Keep breathing through it, alright? Hopefully this’ll help.”

 

“Mmn,” Baekhyun says vaguely, closing his eyes. At first, he always watched the paranormal pair as they worked their voodoo magic on him, but he’s grown bored with it now. They don’t really look like much. Joonmyun—Baekhyun remembers his name!—tends to look concentrated to the point of constipation, all furrowed eyebrows and set jaws, while Yixing always looks completely zen, holding Baekhyun’s hands and sometimes humming. Baekhyun always just feels very warm, like his body is buzzing, filling up with liquid fire that just edges on painful. It feels overwhelming sometimes, and he’s cried more than once, but it doesn’t hurt as much as everything else does, so he doesn’t complain. 

 

He doesn’t cry this time. Joonmyun and Yixing do their thing, and Baekhyun’s chest burns in a very different way than it usually does. He struggles to breathe, but he forces himself to inhale, hold it, exhale. It goes on for a few minutes, building up very very slowly, to the point that Baekhyun doesn’t think he can take it for another second. And then the burning and the fullness lessen, then slip away. He opens his eyes. 

 

The paranormals look utterly wrung out. Joonmyun clutches the back of Yixing’s chair, swaying on his feet, and Yixing’s face is unhealthily pale. He smiles anyway, squeezes Baekhyun’s good hand, the one without his fingers splinted together. “How are you feeling?”

 

Baekhyun breathes in experimentally, and although it’s still painful, and the pressure is still there, he thinks there’s some improvement. The skin over his ribs feels less tight and itchy and inflamed, at the very least. “Bit better,” he mumbles. 

 

“Good,” Yixing says, his smile growing even as his eyes flutter with exhaustion. “That’s really great, Baekhyun.”

 

Baekhyun takes another slow, painstaking breath. “Will my brain ever…” There’s a long pause, and he struggles to find the right words, to finish his thought. “Heal? Will I r’member?”

 

“You’re very concerned with remembering things,” Yixing says, instead of answering. 

 

“‘S all ‘m good for,” Baekhyun admits, wincing. “Not used to...forgetting.”

 

“Well that’s cryptic,” Joonmyun mutters. 

 

“Your dad is always asking us about your memory, too,” Yixing sighs. 

 

Baekhyun’s eyes snap open. He hadn’t even noticed them closing. “How’d you...know?”

 

“What?” Yixing blinks at him. 

 

“That he’s...my dad.” 

 

Yixing furrows his eyebrows at him. “The community leader? Isn’t it...just a fact?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head slowly, even though it hurts to. “‘S a secr’t. Big...secr’t.”

 

“Why is the fact that you’re the leader’s son a secret?” Yixing just looks more confused than ever. 

 

Baekhyun swallows thickly. He hadn’t realized until now how thirsty he is. “‘Cause I’m...import...import...nt.”

 

Yixing shakes his head, like he’s given up on understanding. Baekhyun wonders if he’s even using the right words. “He looks at you like a father,” he says eventually. “I didn’t know he was trying to hide it.”

 

Baekhyun hums slightly, bitterly amused. “Just wants me alive ‘cause I’m...import’nt.”

 

Yixing makes a _tsk_ ing sound. “He was worried about you. _Is_ worried about you.”

 

Baekhyun manages a small scoff, then regrets it. “Sure. ‘Cause I’m—”

 

“Important, yeah. So you said,” says Joonmyun, sounding unimpressed. “Just leave him, Xing, he’s not gonna listen to you.”

 

Yixing sighs. Baekhyun closes his eyes again. 

 

“Let’s go,” Joonmyun says. “You need to rest.”

 

“No, I’m okay. I’ll stay with him a while longer.”

 

“Xing, come on. It’s not like he’s gonna be grateful for your company.”

 

Baekhyun would agree, but he honestly just feels so apathetic about everything right now. He stays silent, pretends to be sleeping. 

 

“It’s fine, Joon. He shouldn’t be alone that much.”

 

“Whatever,” Joonmyun mutters, and Baekhyun hears him sit down across the room. 

 

“Liyin gave me this book earlier,” Yixing says softly, obviously directed at Baekhyun. “Mind if I read it out loud to you?”

 

Baekhyun mumbles vaguely, not really saying anything at all. Lets Yixing interpret it however he wants. 

 

“All of the books in our bunker were in such bad condition by the time we resurfaced,” Yixing says, and his voice is so warm. Baekhyun won’t admit it aloud, but he could listen to it for a long, long time. “This one’s still so nice. It’s called ‘Long Live the Night.’ Have you read it?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head minutely. 

 

“Good. We can read it together.”

 

Baekhyun dozes off in the middle of chapter two, wondering if he’ll even remember any of this when he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now that we're two weeks in, tell me! Is 3 weekly updates good? Too many? Not enough? (Even if it's not enough, I won't post more often lmao.) Would you rather I went back to twice weekly? Let me know~~ Also, shoutout to the 3-4 people who consistently comment on every chapter. I LOVE YALL.
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1myfYUcjSD1JWwLXnQXsC0pd5VDNl6C-dws9waoqdlrA/edit?usp=sharing)!


	7. Chapter 7

Chanyeol has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. He literally is just...completely lost. Repairing the Machine is so, so beyond his qualifications. He doesn’t even know where to _start._

 

He has a little experience with computer technology—he used to take apart and occasionally rewire old tablets and other computing devices when he was younger and they still had ones that worked or could be saved—and he has a little experience with engines and motors. But he has absolutely no experience with machines that try to combine the two together. And that’s exactly what the Machine is. On the outside, it looks like it’s all simple mechanics, things that Chanyeol can deal with—axles, pistons, levers, gears, belts. They’re rusted and broken and falling apart, but they make sense. But as soon as he drags himself into the cockpit above the enormous wheels, there’s a whole new problem. Broken, blank screens. Frayed wiring. Buttons and switches and toggles. It’s mind-bogglingly complex. If it worked, Chanyeol assumes it’d be used to program the thing. But he’s never going to be able to achieve that. 

 

So he knows that, at the very least, he’s going to have to rip the thing apart and bypass all the computer shit. And he really has no idea how he’s going to do that. _Ideally,_ someone’s going to come and save him before he has to get that far, but for now, Chanyeol’s up to his eyeballs in screws and stripped wiring and broken screen glass. He spends entire days in the cockpit, his fractured leg hanging out over the side of his seat as he pulls things apart and tosses them out onto the floor, not really caring about taking care of them because they’re useless anyway. He needs to get down to the bare basics of this thing. He’s not going to be able to restore it, so he’s going to fucking _reinvent_ it. 

 

“Fuck,” he says, newly established as the primary word in his vocabulary. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is this? I don’t even know...where the fuck does this go? What the fuck does this do?”

 

“You sound cheerful today.”

 

Chanyeol grins for the first time all day, sticking his head out of the cockpit at Kyungsoo as he walks in, his blaster slung across his hip as usual, looking sleepy but amused. “Yeah, I’m having a great time over here. Wanna join me? It’s a party.”

 

“I’m good,” Kyungsoo says, balancing Chanyeol’s meal on a tray. “Down, boy. It’s suppertime.”

 

Chanyeol snorts. Pet jokes are always funny, mostly because no one’s owned a pet since their last robotic _BowWowPal_ kicked the bucket. Which was when Chanyeol was four. No one’s owned _live_ pets since pre-Meteor, so Chanyeol’s only ever seen pictures and, back when he was younger, watched films. There’s no room for animals underground, when resources are limited as it is. 

 

With slow, careful movements and gritted teeth, Chanyeol slithers out of the cockpit and onto the first step, holding his splinted leg awkwardly in the air as he lowers himself inch by inch to the floor. His crutches are leaning against the wheel there, but all he uses them for is to push debris out of the way so he can sit down on the floor. “Bring me my feast,” he says imperiously, holding out his hands. 

 

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes and carries the tray over, settling it onto Chanyeol’s lap. He snags a hard biscuit from it before Chanyeol can take it, saying, “This is mine, I didn’t eat it at breakfast. Supper. Whatever.”

 

“Yeah right. You just like to bully poor, suffering cripples.” Chanyeol pouts up at him. 

 

“You owe me some kind of compensation for putting up with you,” Kyungsoo says dryly, snapping off a piece of his biscuit with his teeth. 

 

“Don’t lie, I am a _gift_.” Chanyeol drops his own biscuit into today’s thin soup to soak it. 

 

“That’s disgusting,” Kyungsoo says instead of confirming or denying. 

 

“Maybe I like disintegrated biscuits. Gives my soup some...substance.” It actually makes it all gritty and gross, but honestly, Chanyeol just has a hard time chewing crunchy things. Whatever had caused his concussion had also loosened a tooth, and it’s still in the process of healing, he thinks. But he’s not going to tell Kyungsoo that. 

 

“Disgusting,” Kyungsoo repeats, retreating to his chair to sit down. “How’s the fixing going?”

 

“Great,” Chanyeol says, gesturing at the mess around him. “Really fantastic. Look at the progress I’m making.”

 

“Yeah, it sounded like you were making progress when I came in here,” Kyungsoo says with a snort. “I could really feel the confidence just coming off of you in waves.”

 

“Ha ha ha,” Chanyeol says. “Joke’s on you. By progress, I meant the size of these piles of shit.”

 

Kyungsoo cracks a smile at that. “You’re right. That is progress.”

 

“I gave up on the body momentarily and decided to work on the innards for a while. I’m gutting this thing. Very, very slowly.”

 

“Looks more like you’re just throwing stuff around,” Kyungsoo says, looking around. 

 

Chanyeol taps his nose conspiratorily and grins. “See, that’s the trick. You think there’s some method to this madness, but there’s really not. I’m just tearing shit up.”

 

“Sounds fun,” Kyungsoo intones.

 

“Oh yeah, it’s a blast,” Chanyeol agrees. “I’m loving it.”

 

It’s a total lie. He spends most of his day frustrated, anxious, annoyed, and in pain. The symptoms of his concussion have mostly faded, leaving just a dull headache in its wake, and his leg seems to be healing slowly, but he’s still in pain almost constantly. He’s on a short fuse most of the time, he has no idea what he’s doing _ever_ , he has no idea what lies in his future, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to go home, if he’ll be able to see his friends and family again. 

 

But he’s not going to tell Kyungsoo that. Not when his time with Kyungsoo is the only chance he gets every to day talk like this, to joke around, to smile. To _be_ with someone. His other guards are fine, he supposes. Joohyun and Seulgi aren’t cruel, they don’t treat him badly or abuse him. They feed him when he needs to be fed, they get him the things he needs, and otherwise they watch over him and make sure he’s not doing anything nefarious. But they don’t _interact_ with him. They don’t ask him how he’s doing, or snark back when Chanyeol ribs them. They don’t smile at him or show concern for his well-being. 

 

Chanyeol’s evenings with Kyungsoo are important to him. They keep him sane, when Chanyeol is aching to just...talk to someone. They keep him _alive_. 

 

So excuse him for lying a little, for plastering on a smile even when he’s spent the whole day cursing at the world, for trying to convince himself that things aren’t that bad. He does what he has to do. 

 

“I was thinking about my future novel some more today,” he tells Kyungsoo once he’s finished his meager meal. 

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

Chanyeol nods. He actually hasn’t been thinking about his hypothetical novel at all, but topics of conversation are limited in their current situation. “Yep. I decided I’d set it in the past, you know, back when computers still worked and people still thought electronic books were a better idea than paper ones.” He rolls his eyes. So many books and manuals were lost when their tablets broke down.

 

“Pre-meteors or post?” Kyungsoo asks, playing along. Chanyeol knew he could trust him to. (He pretends it isn’t just because Kyungsoo is desperate for something to do.)

 

“Pre,” Chanyeol says. “I want there to be dogs.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Dogs are cute. No other reason necessary.”

 

Kyungsoo snorts. “What’s your future novel about?”

 

Chanyeol hums, reaching behind one of the Machine’s huge wheels to pluck out his puzzle box, where it keeps it during the day so no one sees it and takes it away from him. He can only tinker with it at times like these, in the evenings with Kyungsoo. Another reason why he looks forward to this part of his day. “A boy and his dog,” he says, spinning the gears on one face. They always catch before he can make one full turn and he can’t figure out why. 

 

“Enthralling,” Kyungsoo deadpans. 

 

“The dog is a dog, but the boy is a werewolf,” Chanyeol says. “Can you pass me that tiny tiny screwdriver?”

 

“That’s creative.” Kyungsoo gets up and hands the little screwdriver to him. “Finally just gonna crack the thing open?” 

 

“Never,” Chanyeol says resolutely. “I’ll figure this thing out if it’s the last thing I do.”

 

Kyungsoo scoffs, but lets it go. 

 

“The boy has no human friends because he relates better to dogs,” Chanyeol says, making things up on the spot as he sticks the screwdriver under one little gear and tries to pry it up. 

 

“Depressing,” Kyungsoo says. “Just like your attempts to fix this piece of shit.”

 

“How dare you call her that!” Chanyeol clutches his puzzle box to his chest. “She has a delicate countenance.”

 

“That is not the right word.”

 

Chanyeol sticks out his tongue at him. 

 

Kyungsoo’s silent for a few moments, watching Chanyeol fiddle with his box for a minute, and then he says, “The gears aren’t connected.”

 

Chanyeol huffs. “I _know._ I’m still trying to decide if that’s why they’re not turning, and if I need to go through the trouble of adding more gears to connect them.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Kyungsoo says uncertainly. “There’s no spot where they would have gone.”

 

Chanyeol shrugs, just as lost himself. 

 

“Are they each connected to something different?” Kyungsoo asks. 

 

“Dunno. Must be under the surface.” 

 

Kyungsoo makes a vague sound. “What are the little gaps in the big gears for?”

 

“What gaps?”

 

“I don’t know.” Kyungsoo reaches out to prod at one gear, and Chanyeol flinches away from his hand on instinct. No one’s touched him since his first interrogation. 

 

But all Kyungsoo does is point to a small hole in the metal of each of the main three gears. “What are these for?”

 

“I dunno. Decoration?”

 

Kyungsoo shrugs. “I guess.”

 

But now that Chanyeol’s looking at them, he can’t stop thinking. He turns the gears carefully, and every few notches, something peeks through the gaps. Little symbols, painted in bronze, silver, and gold. 

 

Little symbols that match the symbols painted on the opposite face of the box, under a sliding flap Chanyeol was able to open after some thorough polishing. 

 

“Yes!” Chanyeol says triumphantly, turning the gears with clumsy fingers to match up the correct symbol to the correct colour. The gears click into place, and the entire face of the box shifts under the gentle pressure of Chanyeol’s hands. He slides it up to reveal a tiny slot, which holds a tiny key. “Fuck, yes, finally. _Now_ we’re getting somewhere. Maybe.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Kyungsoo says dryly. 

 

Chanyeol turns to grin up at him. “I would have figured it out eventually.”

 

“Sure.” Kyungsoo clucks his tongue dismissively. 

 

“I would have! I just hadn’t paid enough attention to these gears yet. They were covered in calcium buildups before, you know. I had to chip away at them very painstakingly.”

 

Kyungsoo hums, sounding unconvinced. “You were going to pry them off with a screwdriver.”

 

Chanyeol can’t help but laugh. “In my defense, what were all the smaller gears for? I was duped.”

 

“Isn’t that the point of the puzzle?” Kyungsoo asks, eyebrows raised. 

“The point is to make me look stupid,” Chanyeol huffs. 

 

“That’s not hard,” Kyungsoo says smoothly. 

 

Chanyeol makes a face at him, and Kyungsoo does a thing with his eyebrows that makes Chanyeol think he’s laughing at him on the inside. 

 

“Now if only you could make this kind of progress with the Machine,” Kyungsoo says, looking up at the hulking contraption next to them. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have to spend all night watching prisoners play with toys.”

 

Chanyeol swallows hard, his good mood instantly souring. He hates that, when Kyungsoo reminds him that Chanyeol’s the prisoner, and Kyungsoo is the guard. He hates that Kyungsoo’s always making that distinction very clear, that he’s only here because he has to be. It’s not that Chanyeol _forgets_. It’s not that Chanyeol pretends he’s here of his own free will. It’s just that Kyungsoo is the closest thing Chanyeol has to a friend right now. And sometimes it’s hard for Chanyeol to deal with the fact that his closest friend is his enemy, that Kyungsoo is his favourite person while simultaneously being someone Chanyeol is supposed to despise. 

 

“You know,” Chanyeol says idly, rubbing the tiny key between his fingers. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if you weren’t on the bad side.”

 

Kyungsoo surprises him by scoffing, more mean than anything. “What bad side?”

 

“ _The_ bad side,” Chanyeol says. “There’s always a bad side. The side that holds captives to fix a Killing Machine, for example.” He shrugs, stomach rolling bitterly. 

 

But Kyungsoo scoffs again. “Do you really think that exists?”

 

“What?” Chanyeol looks up at him, eyes wide. 

 

Kyungsoo’s staring at him hard, simultaneously amused and condescending and almost… _hurt._ “How do you not see it? There are no good guys, Chanyeol. We’re all bad. We’re all just trying to survive. We’re all just...on our own side.” He shakes his head. “We have different ideas, different skills, different opinions, different amounts of land and food, but we have the same wants and needs. We’re all just doing what we’re told. How can you be that naive?” His voice is hard, almost painful in its sharpness. “You’re not good just because your people say you are.”

 

Chanyeol gulps. “I— We—”

 

“Don’t try to make excuses for what your community has done, or try to place the blame on mine,” Kyungsoo says. “I could easily turn it back on you.”

 

Chanyeol opens his mouth, then closes it. He has a lot he wants to say, a lot of rebuttals and arguments, but he hears them all in Sergeant Yunho’s voice, or Community Leader’s. All things he’s been told over and over, to accept automatically, because if they said it, it must be true. 

 

Beside him, Kyungsoo takes a deep breath, then sighs. “Tell me more about the werewolf boy and his dog.”

 

“What?” Chanyeol blinks up at him. 

 

Kyungsoo shrugs, looks at Chanyeol’s piles of broken parts. “Do they have names? A family? Do they live together in the woods?”

 

Chanyeol doesn’t react for a few moments, caught off guard, and then he manages a very small smile. “I don’t know,” he says softly. 

 

“Well, you better get thinking. You’ll never become the first post-apocalyptic author at this rate.”

 

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says. He starts turning the puzzle box in his hands again, searching for a keyhole. “I have a lot to think about, I guess.”

 

***

 

 

Working with Minseok without the guidance of Joonmyun and Yixing, especially in the wake of their mentors’ disappearance, is...simultaneously incredibly difficult and strangely fulfilling. Jongin struggles, every day, with grief and confusion and loss, but practicing keeps him grounded, distracts him, gives him direction and purpose. He still cries, alone in his room at night, aching for comfort or at _least_ closure, but practice gives him something to think about during the day. It gives him a break from the crushing darkness that weighs on his chest,

 

Progress continues to be infuriatingly and painfully slow, but the routine of it is comforting—Jongin practices on his own in the morning, drawing and releasing and feeling out veins of energy, and then Minseok joins him in the afternoon and they practice their “joint spellwork,” as Minseok calls it. And it’s not fun. It’s hard, and it’s sometimes painful, and Jongin’s always scared of hurting Minseok again like he had the first time, and he gets so exhausted. They never know if they’re doing things right, or what they’re doing wrong, and it’s frustrating and daunting. Jongin feels lost and alone and scared. 

 

But he can always trust Minseok to be back the next day to work at it some more. Even when nothing goes right, he can expect Minseok to be back, asking Jongin about magical theory, asking Jongin if he knows anything about conjuring, making sure Jongin is eating. It’s obvious that he still isn’t happy about being forced into this job. It’s obvious that he doesn’t like the position it’s put him in, and that he doesn’t particularly like being forced to spend time with Jongin every day. But he keeps coming back. 

 

At this point, Jongin knows that’s the most he can expect from his partner, and he’s content with that. As long as Minseok doesn’t abandon him, he feels like he can get through this. He has no idea what’s going to happen in the future, what he’s going to do, but he has a conjurer now. They’re figuring things out. Jongin’s going to swallow down his grief, he’s going to bottle up his pain and build up new defenses like he’s always done, and he’s going to do what he was born to do. 

 

Or at least, he will if he can figure it out. 

 

“Alright, Nini, fifty-sixth time’s a charm,” Minseok says, lying flat on his back next to a zucchini plant. “Quick, before I pass out.”

 

“What did you call me?” Jongin sits in the dirt a few feet away, prodding numbly at a prickly leaf. “And it has not been fifty-six tries. I’d be dead.”

 

“Nini. And technically, it’s been fifty-five tries. This next one will be our fifty-sixth.”

 

Jongin frowns. The nickname might sound fond coming from someone else’s mouth, but from Minseok’s it’s infantilizing—probably intentionally so. “I know it hasn’t been that many. Maybe, like, eighteen. Interspersed with rests.”

 

“Maybe while _you’re_ resting, _I’ve_ been trying to master the art of voodoo.”

 

“It’s _not. Voodoo._ ” 

 

“Hmm.”

 

“And it’s not even possible for you to practice without me,” Jongin adds with a sniff. 

 

Minseok opens his eyes, lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe I’m a special kind of conjurer. Dual-power.”

 

“That doesn’t exist,” Jongin says. “If you were a sorcerer, trust me, you’d know it.”

 

“Complaints, complaints. Is there ever a time when you’re not being emo about being born a wizard?”

 

Jongin scowls. “Is there ever a moment for you?” 

 

Minseok’s eyebrows go up, and his lips quirk. “Nice repartee.”

 

“What?”

 

Minseok just sighs and sits up, brushing sandy soil out of his hair. “Is there a way for us wizard types to make it rain? It hasn’t rained decently in...weeks. The Growers are starting to worry.”

 

“We can’t control the weather,” Jongin says with a frown. He doesn’t bother correcting Minseok’s misnomers anymore, unless they’re offensive. “But, you know, water is kind of just...a manifestation of energy.”

 

Minseok stares at him. “It is?”

 

“What? Yeah. It’s one of the earth’s rawest manifestations of energy, after, you know, it’s true raw form.” Jongin shrugs. “Sun, wind, and water, though it’s found most strongly in water. Lightning’s actually the strongest, but it’s like, crazy rare and dangerous. I can draw on those kinds of energy, if I need to. It’s a little more processed than the stuff I use, but it’s definitely possible. Joon and Xing can even use energy from plants, if they need to, though that would be counterproductive. And talented conjurers can transform raw energy into water, I think. I’ve heard of it before, at least. It takes quite a bit of practice and skill, though. Less talented pairs can encourage water up from reservoirs underground. If they can find them, that is. It takes some careful feeling.” He pauses, tries to think if he missed anything he knows about the topic. “We can’t even do simple transformations, though, so I don’t think we’ll be able to do that for...a while.”

 

Minseok is still staring at him. “Damn,” he says. “There’s a lot of stuff I don’t know about this shit.”

 

“Yeah,” Jongin sighs. “Me too.”

 

Minseok is quiet for a few more seconds, and then says, “Alright, let’s try this one more time today, then I’m turning in for the day. Or at least a decent break. I feel like someone ran over me.”

 

“Alright,” Jongin agrees. He knows exactly how Minseok feels. “We haven’t killed anything today, at least.”

 

“Haven’t done much at all,” Minseok mutters. He stretches his arms, flexes his fingers. Jongin knows the waves of energy make his body tight and stiff. “What are you struggling with most right now?”

 

Jongin sighs, shrugs. “Getting overwhelmed. It’s hard to control energy flow when I feel like I’m drowning.”

 

“Hmm.” Minseok looks around. “Then is it a good idea to be, you know, literally sitting in a pool of it?”

 

“What?”

 

“Aren’t we sitting on top of a pocket of energy or whatever? If you’re as sensitive to it as you say, then it’s no wonder you get overwhelmed. That’s like...sitting under a waterfall while you try to put it into bottles without letting them overflow. Wouldn’t it be easier to...scoop it out of a well?”

 

Jongin furrows his eyebrows at him. “What?”

 

“Like, instead of sitting right in it, why don’t you move farther away from it, pull it to you instead of just floundering in it?” Minseok shrugs. 

 

Jongin blinks in surprise. “But no other sorcerers do that. They always get as close to the source as possible.” He pauses. “It’s in our name. Did you know that? They used the word _sorcerer_ because it sounds like _source._ We’re the source of the energy.”

 

Minseok snorts. “Yeah, well, maybe not all _sorcerers_ work the same way. For example, you seem to cry a lot more than most.”

 

Jongin frowns. “I don’t cry that much.”

 

“Whatever.” Minseok pokes him in the side. “I’m just saying. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

 

Honestly, it can’t hurt (or at least, he doesn’t think so). Jongin’s willing to try anything at this point. Pulling the energy towards you is generally considered a waste of a _sorcerer’s_ energy, if moving closer is an option. But Minseok has a point. Jongin already knows he feels more than most. So maybe he needs to find a way to feel _less._ Like distancing himself from the source. 

 

They move away from the garden, until Jongin’s connection to the energy pocket is weaker. Then they sit down, closing their eyes. He pulls it in, lets it flow into his body, and for once, it doesn’t rush in uncontrollably. It’s still hard to grasp, it’s still unwieldy and overwhelming, but Jongin feels like that’s more because he doesn’t know how to control it yet. It’s tiring to pull the energy in, but at the same time, it’s such a relief to not feel like he’s choking on it. 

 

He pushes it into Minseok, like they’ve been practicing all week. He tries to go slow, steady. It’s not easy. Regardless of the amount of energy pulsing through him, it still doesn’t want to listen to him. Minseok makes a small, pained sound, but he doesn’t complain or object. Jongin wants to open his eyes, but he worries that his concentration will slip, so he keeps them squeezed shut, balls his hands into fists on his thighs. He starts to think maybe, finally, they’re getting somewhere, but then Minseok starts to make a quiet _ahhhhhh_ sound, like it’s becoming too much. But Jongin can’t lessen the flow; he’s too tired, this late in the day, so he just hopes Minseok will be able to handle it for a little longer. 

 

“Nope nope nope,” Minseok says, like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. 

 

Jongin grinds his teeth together, frustrated. They’re _never_ going to be able to do this. 

 

“Fucking...nope. Fuck fuck fuck. _Shit._ ” 

 

“Just let go, then,” Jongin hisses. 

 

“I can’t fucking— _Ugh._ ” Minseok’s pull on the energy slackens, and Jongin forcefully takes it back and lets it sink back into the ground, half-transformed and useless. It sears through his body on its way out, wringing him out, but he doesn’t say anything. 

 

“Ow,” Minseok says, groaning. “I can’t fucking do the thing.”

 

Jongin stays silent, frustration building up inside him. How is he supposed to do his job when his conjurer is completely incompetent? He knows he’s not perfect, either, and he knows Minseok is still new to this, but it’s just...hard. He only has one purpose, he has _one thing_ that’s keeping him from just deciding to waste away, and he can’t do it. He can’t even be useful in the only way he knows how. 

 

He’s tired, and sore, and he’d finally thought they were making progress but they _aren’t_ , and he feels so useless. He slumps on the ground, jaw clenched, and tries really hard not to cry. He already cries too much. 

 

“Brooding again, Nini baby?” Minseok asks, grunting as he stretches out again. 

 

“Shut up,” Jongin mutters, staring hard at the ground. 

 

“No thanks. You’re nonvocal and sulky enough for both of us.” Minseok sighs. “Maybe that’s why we’re not getting anywhere.”

 

“It’s not _my_ fault,” Jongin all but growls. 

 

“Are you saying it’s _mine?_ ” Minseok asks. 

 

Jongin shrugs, glowering. 

 

“Listen, you’ve never conjured before,” Minseok says. “This is hard shit. I didn’t grow up doing this. You have the easy job, you just _move_ shit.”

 

“You don’t know anything about being a sorcerer,” Jongin says quietly. 

 

“I know that it can’t be as hard as my job,” Minseok says, superior in a way that he has _no right_ to be. “Baby.”

 

“Shut up!” Jongin yells finally, whipping around. “All you have to do is _will_ the fucking energy to change. You’re just not _trying_ hard enough. That’s literally all there is to your job. You just have to _try_ hard enough. Maybe if you spent less time criticizing me and more time focusing on your own fucking skill—”

 

He stops talking abruptly, because Minseok is _grinning._ He’s watching Jongin and smiling, wide and proud. “I always wonder how long it’ll take you to crack.”

 

“What?” Jongin suddenly feels twice as exhausted as he was before, sagging. 

 

“I like it when you get all worked up.” Minseok laughs. “Proves you’re not just a weepy kid who sits there and takes whatever’s thrown at him.”

 

Jongin scowls. “Shut up.”

 

Minseok just keeps grinning, staggering to his feet. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get supper.” He takes a step closer, ruffles Jongin’s hair almost too roughly to be called fond. 

 

Jongin smacks his hand away. “Stop,” he mutters. 

 

“Feisty,” Minseok laughs. “Let’s go.”

 

Jongin makes a face at him, but it twists into a crooked grin despite his best efforts. “You’re annoying,” he says, since his lips won’t obey him.

 

“You too, Nini.” Minseok punches him in the shoulder, just a tad too hard. 

 

Jongin follows him back to the community center for supper, tired and frustrated and aching and a little angry still, with his gut tight with lingering grief underneath all that, but with a smile tugging at his mouth. 

 

And that’s not a whole lot, but right now...at least it’s something.

 

***

 

 

Kyungsoo usually tries to wake up early enough to have supper before the rest of the the community, so that he can grab Chanyeol’s tray and head to relieve Seulgi from her shift. Today, though, he’s late, because they don’t actually have a clock in their house and Sehun doesn’t always remember to come wake him up in time. Kyungsoo thinks maybe this is a way for Sehun to get him to eat with him for at least one meal a day.

 

“How are you liking your new job?” Kyungsoo asks, sitting pressed up against Sehun at a crowded table. “You’ve barely said anything about it.”

 

Sehun sighs, poking listlessly at limp spinach. “I don’t know. Growing’s okay. Very quiet.” His eyes flick up from his meal, then quickly back. 

 

“Boa was scared your epilepsy was triggered again by being in a high-stress environment,” Kyungsoo says. “We decided Growing might be easier on you.”

 

Sehun pouts childishly. “I’m not a _baby_. I just had one seizure.”

 

“Your first in _years_. You can’t stop us from worrying about you, Sehunnie.”

 

Sehun’s gaze wanders again. “I wanted to be a soldier,” he grumps. “Like you.”

 

“But we tried that, and it really did not work,” Kyungsoo says placatingly. “Now you’re doing a much more...wholesome job.”

 

“Twelve-year-olds can do my job,” Sehun mutters. He’s looking away again. Kyungsoo follows his gaze quickly enough that his younger brother can’t deflect. 

 

“Oh, it’s Jongin.” It’s easy to tell who Sehun is looking at—there’s no one else sitting anywhere near the paranormal boy. 

 

“You know him?” Sehun asks, sounding surprised. 

 

“Yeah, he’s like...our neighbour.” Kyungsoo frowns at him. “How do you _not_ know him?”

 

“Well, I mean, I’ve _seen_ him before, obviously.” Sehun peeks at Jongin through his fringe. “He looks lonely.”

 

Kyungsoo hums vaguely. Jongin _does_ look lonely, sitting all alone and eating his food mechanically. Minseok, whom Kyungsoo has seen with Jongin in the past, is sitting at a table with a bunch of the Builders, with that new guy he’s seen around recently. He’s the only person Kyungsoo’s ever seen Jongin with, apart from the older paranormal pair they’d lost recently. 

 

“You should go talk to him,” he tells Sehun, nudging the younger boy with his elbow.

 

“Me?” Sehun sounds positively scandalized. “Why should I?”

 

Kyungsoo grins. “Because you noticed him first. Plus, he’s probably about your age. And also, I’m working or sleeping whenever he’s awake.”

 

“Well, what would I say?” Sehun asks. “ _Hey, I saw you sitting over here alone, wanna be friends?_ ” 

 

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo says cheerfully. “Hey, Jongin!”

 

“Kyungsoo!” Sehun yelps. 

 

Jongin looks over, eyes wide, and doesn’t respond.

 

“Jongin, come over here!” Kyungsoo calls. 

 

The paranormal boy looks around, then points at himself. “Me?”

 

Kyungsoo laughs. “Is there any other Jongin here?”

 

The poor kid looks absolutely terrified. Which, okay, Kyungsoo can understand that a little. No one’s had many nice things to say to him since he arrived. 

 

“Get up,” he tells Sehun. “We’re going over there.”

 

“Kyungsoo,” Sehun whines. “I never said I wanted to do this.”

 

“I’m setting you up. You better act friendly, Senshine, or I’ll kick your ass.”

 

A few seconds later, Kyungsoo is dragging his younger brother over to Jongin’s empty table. “Hi,” he says, sitting down across from him. “This is Sehun, he’s in my family unit.”

 

Jongin stares at them nervously. “Hi,” he says quietly, tense, like he’s ready to bolt at any second. 

 

“I have to go to work soon, but Sehun was wondering if you could keep him company this evening.”

 

“ _Kyungsoo._ ” 

 

Jongin just looks very lost. “What are you talking about?”

 

Kyungsoo shrugs. “Sehun’s not so good with friend-making, so I’m helping out a little.”

 

“...Oh.” Jongin frowns, like he still doesn’t know what’s going on. 

 

Sehun slumps beside Kyungsoo and sulks, like the unwilling kid on a play date. This is why he’s bad at making friends. 

 

“Go on,” Kyungsoo encourages. “Talk. Get to know each other. You’re going to be friends, after all.”

 

Jongin stares at Sehun, confused, and Sehun stares at the table. The silence stretches on awkwardly long, until Sehun finally mumbles, “So, you’re magic or something, right?”

 

Jongin blinks. “Um. Yeah, I guess.”

 

Sehun fidgets. “Cool.” 

 

A new look blooms on Jongin’s face, something like confused, very tentative hope, mixed in with a healthy dash of suspicion. Kyungsoo has the distinct feeling that no one has ever told Jongin his abilities are cool before, and he has no idea what to do now that someone has.

 

“Alright, you two, I have to get going. Play nice, alright Sehun?” Kyungsoo stands up, ruffles his younger brother’s hair. He smiles at Jongin—poor kid looks like he needs it. “See you around, Jongin. Feel free to visit our home sometime. I’m usually sleeping, but Sehun’s there in the evenings.”

 

Jongin nods slowly. “O...kay.”

 

“Talk to you guys later.” With a last nudge to Sehun’s shoulder, Kyungsoo retreats to hastily finish off his meal and grab a tray for Chanyeol. By the time he leaves, Jongin still looks pretty shell-shocked. 

 

Several minutes later, he’s handing the tray to Chanyeol on the floor of the storehouse. “Look. Not soup today.”

 

Chanyeol grins up at him from his spot on the floor, scribbling on a sheet of paper. He’d been subdued for a while after Kyungsoo’s little...outburst, but if nothing else, Kyungsoo is impressed with this man’s ability to bounce back. 

 

When Kyungsoo snorts with laughter, of course, the grin slips away. “What? Why are you laughing at me?”

 

“You are literally completely covered in grease. Or something.” There are black streaks across Chanyeol’s face, left by careless hands—his fingers are covered in the stuff as well. As are his clothes. “Would you like to, I don’t know, wash up?”

 

“Oh god, really? Is that an option? I’ve been filthy for _days_ , Kyungsoo. Days. I’m swimming in dried blood and dirt and rust and who knows what else.”

 

Kyungsoo winces a little. He feels bad for never having thought to offer Chanyeol a half-decent wash before. “Yeah, I’ll get you something later on,” he says. “I have to call someone over.”

 

Chanyeol beams, and before Kyungsoo can say anything about it, he’s stripping off his shirt to turn it inside out and wipe off his hands and face with the clean side. Kyungsoo won’t deny that he stares a little, completely caught off guard. Chanyeol’s been wearing a fairly loose, threadbare, long-sleeved shirt this whole time—it’d been what he was wearing underneath his armour when they’d brought him in. Now, Kyungsoo realizes he’s...more muscular than he’d expected, somehow. Chanyeol’s face is so youthful and soft, with his wide smiles and round eyes and kind of dopily large ears. Somehow, despite Chanyeol’s jobs as Fixer and soldier, he hadn’t expected his body to not match his face. 

 

“Impressed?” Chanyeol asks cheekily, flexing a little as Kyungsoo hastily looks away. “I’ve been getting a workout, hauling myself all over the place.”

 

Kyungsoo snorts. “Sure you’re not doing crunches in your spare time?”

 

“Gotta look the part of dashing hero when I return home,” Chanyeol says with a broad smile. One of his eyes squints a little more than the other when he smiles that big. It’s an endearing imperfection in an otherwise...unnervingly perfect face. 

 

“Eat your food, Muscle Man,” he says, kicking out like he’s threatening to tip the tray. Chanyeol clings to it tightly. 

 

“So you admit I have muscles,” he says smugly, when it becomes clear that his food is not in danger. 

 

“What, am I supposed to deny it?”

 

“No, I just wanted to make sure you noticed them.” Chanyeol flexes a few more times. It’s not like he’s incredibly built or anything, but Kyungsoo can definitely see the lines of his muscles when he tenses them. 

 

Not that he’s looking. 

 

“Are you done?” Kyungsoo asks dryly, sitting down in his chair. 

 

“Not quite,” Chanyeol says, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to flash his abs. 

 

“I bet Seulgi could kick your ass,” Kyungsoo tells him airily. 

 

Chanyeol gasps, offended. “Not fair! I’m crippled.”

 

Kyungsoo has to snort. “How’s the leg doing, anyway?”

 

“Don’t try to change the subject away from my hot body,” Chanyeol says, sticking out his tongue a little before he shoves food into his mouth. 

 

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “You don’t need any ice for it, then?”

 

“Will you get me some?” Chanyeol perks up immediately. 

 

“I’ll put in a request,” Kyungsoo allows. “Just make sure to look really miserable when they come in to look at you.”

 

“Can do, captain,” Chanyeol says with a grin. 

 

Kyungsoo watches him eat for a few minutes, then eventually breaks the silence with, “Why are you so covered in grease anyway?” Black smudges remain on his face and hands, stubbornly clinging to his skin.

 

“I was checking out the engine,” Chanyeol says, shrugging. “There’s a _lot_ of gross, century-old oil in there.”

 

“Get anywhere?”

 

Chanyeol shakes his head. “Not really. The oiliness kept it from rusting through, at least, but there are some parts that are broken or missing. I gotta figure out what they are and how to replace them.”

 

“Fun stuff.”

 

“It’s an adventure, yeah.” Chanyeol looks up from his plate and smiles, one of those soft grins that actually look genuine. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Kyungsoo is left to sit there in the following silence, wondering once again why he always spends his evenings inside the storehouse with Chanyeol rather than standing guard outside like the girls do. It just seems like a really bad idea. 

 

But then, later on Kyungsoo gives a sharp whistle and Joohyun shows up to ask what he needs, and Kyungsoo requests a basin of water and some ice if they can spare it. And Chanyeol beams at Kyungsoo like he’s an angel descended to earth. Just for fulfilling some basic needs. 

 

It’s still a bad idea. But he can’t bring himself to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pvyEM0ZtlZyv5hSH3PHeT0lyl0MWZ8KwBkzIh-Ceq3k/edit?usp=sharing)!


	8. Chapter 8

It takes Baekhyun over a week, in his confused and disoriented state, to realize something is wrong. Time is passing—days—he doesn’t know how many but he knows it’s been several—and none of his friends have come by to visit him. 

 

He wonders why for hours, he thinks, until Liyin comes in to check on him, patting his clammy skin with a damp cloth and asking him how he’s feeling. 

 

He answers her questions as best as he can, still struggling with speaking and forming coherent sentences, and then he side-eyes the paranormals on the other side of the room as he says, “Liyin? Are people not allowed to...visit me?”

 

His nurse gives him a strange look. “No, they can. Your mother has been by, remember?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” He frowns. “Then where’s...Chanyeol?”

 

Liyin’s face falls immediately, and Baekhyun feels dread crawl up his spine. “Baekhyun, he...don’t you remember?”

 

Fear clutches at his stomach, and he wants to throw up. “Tell me,” he croaks. 

 

“He’s gone,” she says quietly, eyes wide. 

 

Baekhyun sees Yixing’s face crumple in the background. And then he closes his eyes and sobs. 

 

Liyin’s explanation of what happened, once Baekhyun has recovered enough from his sudden overwhelming waves of grief to hear it, sparks his memory a little. Usually, Baekhyun would have been ecstatic. He’s had a few short bursts of remembering in the past couple days, a few of the multitudinal, enormous holes in his memory filling themselves in, and it had been exciting. But this is not the way he wants to remember things. If it takes this much pain, and this much anguish, just to remember the situation surrounding his best friend’s disappearance and possible death, then god, leave him in the dark. 

 

“Your other friend, Yifan?” Liyin says carefully. “He and his friend Luhan disappeared the following night. Not in battle or anything. I heard he was hoping to run a rescue mission, against orders.”

 

Baekhyun nods numbly. He remembers that, sort of, now that she’s mentioned it. It only makes him feel marginally better. 

 

He forgot his own best friend’s death. 

 

Talking about Chanyeol does, however, spur one important memory of his, and he nearly tries to bolt upright in his bed when it registers—which wouldn’t have worked regardless, but that’s not the point. He gasps, flapping his hand over his aching chest, and wheezes, “Oh, god, the plant. I’m s’pposed to...his plant.”

 

“What?” Joonmyun says flatly from the corner. Liyin just looks concerned. 

 

“Chanyeol has a plant.” Baekhyun struggles to find the right words, to make himself understood, and it’s never felt so important until now. He nearly screams with frustration. “In his...his...workshop. By the, the window. Okay? Bring it to me.”

 

“Sure, sweetheart,” Liyin says, eyebrows furrowed. “I can do that.”

 

Baekhyun tries his best not to panic while he waits for her return. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the little potted plant was watered, but he hopes to god he’s not too late. If that fucking thing is dead—the last thing he has left of Chanyeol, the last request given to him by Yifan before he too disappeared—Baekhyun will never be able to forgive himself. He doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

 

Liyin returns ten minutes later, and Baekhyun nearly sobs with relief. The plant is a little droopy, a little wilted, but Baekhyun knows it’s not beyond saving. “Thank you,” he says, swallowing hard. 

 

“I’ll put it on the windowsill, love,” Liyin says gently, smiling at him in reassurance as she settles it in place. 

 

“You need to...water it,” Baekhyun tells her, still trembling with the force of his relief—or maybe that’s the hypoxic tremors. 

 

“Of course,” Liyin says, and dumps Baekhyun’s own cup of water into the soil. Baekhyun doesn’t mind at all. 

 

Yixing steps forward suddenly—Baekhyun had forgotten he was still in the room. “We can give it a small boost, if you’d like,” he says gently. “It’s what we’re best at.”

 

Baekhyun stares at him, then at Joonmyun behind him. The latter looks unhappy, as usual, but he does offer, “It’s a strong plant, in case you were worried. Impressive, actually, how much energy is stored inside it. Any idea what kind it is?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head. He doesn’t even think Chanyeol knew. 

 

“Joon?” Yixing asks, imploring. 

 

“Yeah, fine, we’ll boost the plant,” Joonmyun mutters. 

 

“Is it...safe?” Baekhyun interrupts, nervousness spiking through him. “For the plant.”

 

Yixing nods, smiling reassuringly. “We’ve done this hundreds of times. You won’t even notice a difference, but it’ll thrive more.”

 

“Okay,” Baekhyun says quietly. 

 

The pair goes silent, concentrating, and a few seconds later, they’re done. Baekhyun does not, indeed, notice any difference. He tries to convince himself the plant’s leaves look a little perkier, though. 

 

“Thank you,” he says, not taking his eyes off the green leaves that greedily soak up sunlight. 

 

“Of course,” Yixing says, now looking tired, and Joonmyun grunts.

 

They leave a few minutes later to rest in the other room, but Liyin stays, sitting by Baekhyun’s raised bed and talking to him quietly, idly. It’s obvious that she’s constantly testing his memory—asking questions about something someone said earlier, prompting Baekhyun to repeat a response again a few minutes after he said it. It’s tiring, especially when Baekhyun fails the tests. And it’s depressing. 

 

“I used to have friends,” he says quietly, staring at the window. “Now I just have...a plant. God.”

 

Liyin looks at him for a long moment, then says, “Honey, I think you need a new friend.”

 

“What, to...replace my old ones?” Baekhyun snaps, working himself into righteous annoyance in a split second. Liyin had warned him that he may experience mood swings post brain trauma. He hates that as much as everything else—not being in control of himself. 

 

“Of course not,” his nurse says soothingly. “But you’re lonely. You were right, earlier, about no one visiting you. You need someone to talk to, other than me.”

 

“Yixing talks to me,” Baekhyun mutters. Not that he can really appreciate that. His father’s been drilling it into his brain for months that paranormals can’t be trusted—it’s one of the few things he remembers clearly. 

 

“I know, and that’s great. But you need someone you can share with. I think it’ll help the healing process, don’t you? Being able to talk through your memories in a relaxed setting, with a friend.” Liyin purses her lips. “Do you have anyone you can talk to like that?”

 

Baekhyun grits his teeth, shakes his head. “No. They’re all...gone.”

 

“Can you think of someone else?” Liyin presses. “A childhood friend, someone you work with?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head again. He wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing his memories with someone he knows, someone that knows _everyone_. Q-16 is a web of interconnected relationships—if he tells one person something, the whole community will know within the day. It’s simply how they operate. They don’t really keep secrets. 

 

Well, no one but Baekhyun. 

 

Liyin sighs. “Keep thinking, okay? I’m asking as your healer. This would be good for you, Baekhyun. I know you’ve lost a lot recently. But in times of need, a friend can go a long way. Humans rely on each other.” 

 

Baekhyun huffs out a short breath. “There’s no one in Q-16—” He pauses, blinks. A new memory tugs at his mind, prompted by the name of his community. He grasps at it, tries to hold onto the connection his faulty mind is making. 

 

“Well, let me know if you think of any,” Liyin says, standing to leave. 

 

“Wait,” Baekhyun says, eyes closed, brows furrowed. “There’s an...allied group, right? That joined?”

 

“Q-17?” Liyin asks uncertainly. 

 

“Yes.” Baekhyun’s eyes snap open. “Luhan had a friend. A Builder.”

 

Liyin hums thoughtfully. “A Builder? Jongdae?”

 

Recognition flickers in Baekhyun’s brain. “Is he still here?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Liyin smiles slightly. “He gets small injuries often, I seem to treat him more than most.”

 

Baekhyun wants to grin in triumph. Instead, he just says, “I want him.”

 

“Oh. Well. I’ll let him know. Are you friends?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head slightly. “We could be, though.”

 

Liyin chuckles softly. “Alright. It’s good to hear you being optimistic, Baekhyun.”

 

Baekhyun isn’t even listening to her anymore. This Jongdae guy is perfect. He doesn’t know Baekhyun, doesn’t know Baekhyun’s past, doesn’t know what he’s like. He didn’t grow up with them, he doesn’t have connections, doesn’t feel obligated to gossip about everything anyone tells him. He’s separate from the group, he’s isolated. 

 

Maybe he can keep the secrets Baekhyun needs to let out. 

 

 

 

 

He meets Jongdae the next day—he’s seen him around before, but he’s never actually talked to Luhan’s Builder friend before. He seems like he’s about Baekhyun’s age, with an open, curious face. The kind of face that makes you think he could be anyone’s friend. He looks confused, of course, when he walks into Baekhyun’s room. Baekhyun doesn’t blame him. 

 

“You...wanted me?” he asks, eyebrows quirked as he looks Baekhyun over. 

 

Baekhyun rubs at his eyes as furiously as his weak, trembling hands allow. Liyin had just left and let Jongdae in after her. “Sorry. Physical...therapy. Hurts like...hell.”

 

Jongdae just nods. “You _look_ like hell.”

 

Baekhyun lets out a short, wheezy laugh. “No one ever says that...to me.”

 

Jongdae grins. “They’re all lying, then.”

 

“I know.” Baekhyun grins back. 

 

He made a good choice. 

 

“So, what do you need me for?” Jongdae asks. “Liyin said you need a friend, but I’m getting the feeling that’s not all.”

 

Baekhyun tries out a shrug, and decides he won’t be doing that again anytime soon. “Well, she’s right.”

 

“But?” 

 

Jongdae is smart. “There’s a bit...more to it than that. I need a...recovery buddy,” Baekhyun admits.

 

“Go on.” He looks interested. 

 

Baekhyun looks around the room. “Are those paranormals awake?”

 

Jongdae lifts his eyebrows, then sidles into the connected room and takes a peek. “Out cold,” he reports. 

 

“Sit down.” Baekhyun gestures weakly at the chair next to his bed, slightly lower than his raised bed frame (to keep him off the cold floor—most people’s bed mats are directly on the ground). He frowns as his hands twitch uncontrollably. 

 

Jongdae does, resting his chin on his hands attentively. “All ears.”

 

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “My memory...is shit.”

 

“Yeah? Mine’s not great either.”

 

“No, my memory is...I lost a bunch. A _lot_. And I had...a lot to lose.”

 

“You’re not _that_ old.”

 

Baekhyun gives Jongdae a steady look. “Imagine if you had...all your memories. All of them. Every day. Every...detail. You just...remembered. They’d...pile up, right?”

 

Jongdae’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “I’m assuming you’re not just speaking hypothetically?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head. “You can’t tell...anyone about this. Okay? If you do—”

 

“I’ll be murdered?” Jongdae asks, looking amused. 

 

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Baekhyun says, tilting his chin up to meet his challenging look. 

 

“Yikes.” Jongdae sticks out his tongue. “Not that I have anyone to tell, anyway.”

 

“Good.” Baekhyun smiles. “I have a...a...superior. Memory.” Damn, he can’t remember the word for the life of him. Ironic. “If you tell it to me once, I remember it forever. I remember...dates. Numbers. Names. Facts. Whatever they...tell me. I’m an...encyclo...encyc…”

 

“Encyclopedia?” Jongdae prompts. 

 

Baekhyun offers a small, humorless smile. “Thank you.”

 

“But since the explosion...?” Jongin tilts his head curiously. 

 

“Gone,” Baekhyun says, wincing as the grief of it hits him anew. “A lot of them.”

 

“Ouch,” Jongdae says with a mirroring wince of his own. 

 

“And some of them are…” He huffs. “Important.”

 

“Important how?”

 

Baekhyun gingerly shakes his head. “People...rely on me to remember things. Big things. But I’ve...forgotten.”

 

“Cryptic,” Jongdae says. 

 

“Yeah. Well.” Baekhyun sniffs. “Can’t tell you things I’ve forgotten.”

 

Jongdae chuckles, nodding his agreement. “Alright. Fair enough.”

 

Baekhyun laughs as well, a soft cough of air, and he looks away, to his window. To the plant on the sill, quivering slightly in the breeze. It looks so frail, with its thin stalks and droopy leaves. Like Baekhyun. 

 

“Baekhyun?” Jongdae prompts. 

 

“Hm?” Baekhyun blinks at him. “What?”

 

“Were you going to...finish filling me in on why you need me?”

 

Baekhyun stares at him, long and hard. “What are you doing here?”

 

Jongdae gapes at him. “Are you messing with me?”

 

A cold rush of fear fills Baekhyun’s gut. He swallows hard, afraid he’ll throw up. “Did I...forget again?” he whispers. 

 

Jongdae just keeps staring. “Do you...know who I am?”

 

Baekhyun squints, focuses hard. “Jongdae, right? That Builder from...Q-17? Luhan’s friend?” 

 

“Yeah,” Jongdae breathes. “I’m here to be your recovery buddy.”

 

“Oh.” Baekhyun thinks that over. “That’s...a good idea. You’re...de...detached. From. The community.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t wanna tell...the community. Big...secret.” Baekhyun suddenly feels so, so tired. “You’ll do it?”

 

“What do I have to do?”

 

“Hmm. Be m’ friend.” Baekhyun’s speech gets more slurred the more exhausted he gets. “Be nice. Kay? But not too nice. ‘M not...a baby.”

 

“Alright,” Jongdae says, looking confused and concerned. 

 

“Listen to my...memories. Talking...might help.”

 

“Okay,” Jongdae says, more confident this time. 

 

“Lots of...holes. In m’ brain.” Baekhyun sniffs, tries not to get teary-eyed. God, no, the _mood swings._ “So much...blurriness. Was so clear. Before.”

 

“Yeah, it’s fine, we can work on that.”

 

“Everything is so hard.” Baekhyun exhales a sound that might be a sob. “Can’t remember...simple facts. Names. Numbers. And sometimes I forget...right away. Right after I’m told.” He muffles a whimper into the back of his hand. “Sorry. Just...scared. God, this is...shit.”

 

“Yeah,” Jongdae says quietly, his curly lips downturned, somber. 

 

“My brain is the only reason I’m...important,” Baekhyun says, eyes burning. “Made me..special. Made me _wanted._ ” He breathes out slowly, hates himself. “This is torture.”

 

“Yeah,” Jongdae says again. “That’s really shitty, Baekhyun.”

 

Baekhyun likes how he doesn’t say _I’m sorry_ , or _It’ll get better._ He doesn’t make empty promises, doesn’t give meaningless condolences. He just agrees. It’s nice. 

 

“So you’ll...help?” Baekhyun asks, probably sounding pathetic and desperate but currently not giving a fuck. 

 

“Yeah, sure,” Jongdae says, offering a small grin. “I want to know important secrets, too.”

 

Baekhyun manages a smile in response. “Okay. Thanks.”

 

“No problem.” Jongdae raises his hand, presumably to punch him in the shoulder, a friendly gesture, but then obviously thinks better of it and ruffles his disgustingly greasy hair instead. “See you around, okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Baekhyun whispers. 

 

 

 

 

Several hours later, Baekhyun sees the plant on his windowsill and says, “Hey, where’s Chanyeol? That...fucker, hasn’t even come to visit me.”

 

The only two people in the room—Yixing and Joonmyun—freeze and stare at him. Baekhyun stares back. “What?”

 

It’s Yixing that finally speaks up, nervous and unsure. “Baekhyun...your friend Chanyeol is gone. Liyin told you earlier today.”

 

His meltdown is, Baekhyun assumes, not as terrible as it was the first two times. He doesn’t cry. He just lies there in his bed, feeling like a cold, sickening blackness is spreading through his whole body. Yixing sits next to him, holds his hands, says soft, soothing words, but Baekhyun feels like he’s a million miles away. He feels like he’s submerged, and everything else is muted and far away. 

 

When everything clears again, Yixing is still at his bedside, even though it’s dark outside now, and he’s still holding Baekhyun’s hands. He’s asleep, forehead resting on the foam mat of his bed, and the sheet beneath his eyes is damp. Baekhyun would feel touched, he thinks, if he could feel anything. 

 

He can’t forget Chanyeol. He can’t forget something _this important_. All that other stuff, those things he’s supposed to remember, he thinks he could live with forgetting that forever. But not this. He won’t forget this again. 

 

He can’t. 

 

And he’s going to need help.

 

***

 

At night, Chanyeol dreams.

 

Sometimes, of course, he’s not sure what’s all a dream and what is desperate wishful thinking. Sometimes he’s not sure if he’s awake and hallucinating or truly asleep or somewhere in between. He already tries so hard not to sleep—if he’s sleeping, he’s losing more time with Kyungsoo, more time talking to a real human being. But it’s inevitable. He has to be awake in time for morning meal—breakfast, they call it here—so by the end of the day, he’s exhausted beyond belief, after working long hours and dealing with the constant stress of his slowly healing injuries. In the end, he always falls asleep before he’s ready. 

 

In sleep, Chanyeol’s friends join him. Sometimes they’re outside, sometimes they’re in Chanyeol’s new workshop—prison. Sometimes they’re in his home, in the room he shares with Baekhyun and Yifan. His friends smile at him, and talk to him. They tell him he doesn’t have to go back to that place. They talk about lots of things. Luhan tells him a funny story about his Builder friends, and Chanyeol cracks up laughing. Baekhyun tells him the fields are doing really well, Q-16 is eating well, they’re not going to starve this winter. Yifan tells him they finally won the Valley, and they don’t have to fight anymore. And they talk about simpler things. They discuss favourite meals. They talk about books they read as kids. Places they heard about but never dreamed of being able to visit. Toys they had back in the bunker, when things were easier, because they were young and didn’t know they couldn’t stay there. 

 

The dream changes, and Yifan is rescuing Chanyeol from X-22. He’s breaking down the door, and he’s grinning. “Don’t worry,” he says, holding Chanyeol’s old blaster. “They’ll pay for what they did to you.”

 

Chanyeol is happy, but he’s worried, too. He feels torn. He hates X-22, because they took him away from his home, forced him to do things he didn’t want to do. But he doesn’t hate the people he’s met. Joohyun and Seulgi aren’t warm towards him, but they aren’t evil. He sees them talk sometimes, outside his workshop, and they smile at each other, they hold hands and laugh, they kiss each other quickly before trading shifts. And even Boa, the community leader, was not evil when Chanyeol met her. She reminded him of his mother. Strong, determined, unrelenting in the face of difficult decisions. And he doesn’t hate Kyungsoo. He could never hate Kyungsoo. Yifan means to kill them, to make them _pay_ , but Chanyeol doesn’t want that. He hates the community, but not the people. Does that make sense? He tries to tell Yifan that, but Yifan doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Chanyeol isn’t happy. 

 

How can he ever understand what Chanyeol has learned here?

 

The dream changes again. Baekhyun is sitting in the cockpit of the Machine. He doesn’t understand that it’s meant to kill people. Maybe to kill his own community. He’s happy up there. He’s smiling at Chanyeol. 

 

“It’s quiet without you,” he says. He’s just visiting. Chanyeol will be sad to see him go. “It’s too bad you can’t come back.”

 

“I will,” Chanyeol tells him. “I’ll come back soon.”

 

“I hope so,” Baekhyun says with a nod. He swings his legs. “How are you doing out here? You must be enjoying yourself. You get to fix a lot of things.”

 

“I’m lonely,” Chanyeol says. “It’s so lonely.”

 

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

 

“It’s so lonely,” he says again. “I want to go home so bad.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Baekhyun says. 

 

“I’m still fixing that puzzle box you gave me.”

 

“That’s good. It’s not done yet?”

 

“No, not done yet. I think I can do it eventually though. I’m not giving up.”

 

“I’m glad you have something to remember me by,” Baekhyun says, pleased. 

 

“I’m glad, too,” Chanyeol says. 

 

“I’m sorry you’re lonely,” Baekhyun tells him, sad again. 

 

“I have Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol tells him. 

 

“Who is that? Have I met him?”

 

“No, of course not. He’s from this community. He acts like a friend, even if he can’t be one.”

 

“Chanyeol, he’s an enemy.”

 

“I know, Baekhyun, but he’s also a friend. Do you understand?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

Chanyeol doesn’t know how to explain to Baekhyun what he tried to tell Yifan before. How he hates the community but not the people. “He talks to me.”

 

“That doesn’t mean much.”

 

“But it does to me. And he knows it. He doesn’t have to talk to me.”

 

“Do you like him?”

 

Chanyeol is surprised by that question. “Yes,” he says. “He makes me laugh.”

 

“I like him, then.”

 

“I thought you said he’s an enemy.”

 

“Anyone who makes you laugh is no enemy of mine.” Baekhyun laughs. “I want to meet him.”

 

“I don’t think that’ll ever happen,” Chanyeol says. “Sorry.”

 

Baekhyun looks down at him, his eyes warm and sad. “We miss you,” he says. “I miss you.”

 

It hurts. Chanyeol thinks it’s unfair that it has to hurt. “Don’t say that.”

 

“Okay.” Baekhyun understands. 

 

“Is someone taking care of my plant?” Chanyeol asks now. He needs to know. 

 

“Yes, of course,” Baekhyun says, soothing. “It’ll be there when you come back.”

 

“That’s good. Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Baekhyun says. “It’s growing. It’ll be bigger when you get back.”

 

“It there a flower? Or a fruit?” Chanyeol asks. He doesn’t know what his plant is supposed to look like. 

 

“You’ll have to come look yourself,” Baekhyun says. Balls. 

 

“I guess so.”

 

“How are you?” Baekhyun asks. His fingers curl around the edge of the cockpit floor where he sits on the edge. Familiar hands. Always cold, though. 

 

“Sometimes good, sometimes bad,” Chanyeol answers honestly. “My leg hurts. But it’s getting better.”

 

“Do you think you’ll ever fix this machine?” Baekhyun asks, kicking his feet against the rusty stair. 

 

“I don’t know. It’s really complex. It’s really old. I don’t know if I can do it.”

 

“Will you fix it if you can, even though it’s dangerous?” Baekhyun asks. 

 

“They’ll make me fix it,” Chanyeol says. “What if they stop feeding me? I’ll have to fix it.”

 

“But will you let them use it, Chanyeol? Will you let them use it after you’ve fixed it?” 

 

Chanyeol understands what he means. He’s already thought about it. Chanyeol knows how to fix things, but he also knows how to break them. He knows how to make them destroy themselves. He could make it look like an accident, maybe. By that time, he might be gone already. 

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

 

“I wish you’d come back,” Baekhyun says with a smile. “It’s quiet without you.”

 

“Don’t leave me alone.” Chanyeol panics. Baekhyun is going to leave him. He’ll have nothing again. What if no one else comes to visit him? 

 

“I’ll talk to you later, Chanyeol.” Baekhyun smiles wider. At least that’s the last image Chanyeol sees of him. Smiling. 

 

The dream changes. 

 

It’s dark now. Cold. It’s so cold, and Chanyeol’s on the concrete floor. He just has his blanket under him, and the cold seeps up through it, bites into his aching leg. Sometimes the cold feels good on it, but today it hurts. 

 

Kyungsoo is there. Chanyeol feels so relieved. He’s not alone. They don’t say anything, but Kyungsoo smiles at him, and hands him a platter of food. Hot food, freshly cooked. Things Chanyeol hasn’t eaten in years and years. Mashed potatoes made from freeze-dried flakes, with gravy on top, the kind made from brown powder. Hot cocoa in a standard tin mug. That was just for his birthday. He thinks he was turning six. He doesn’t question why Kyungsoo has it. Maybe X-22 didn’t run out like Q-16 did. 

 

It’s cold, and cold, and cold, but the food is so warm, and Kyungsoo is smiling. Chanyeol eats, and he feels safe, and taken care of. He doesn’t feel scared or alone. Kyungsoo laughs, even though Chanyeol didn’t say anything. It’s a silent laugh—Chanyeol’s never heard it in real life before. But it’s beautiful anyway. 

 

Chanyeol finishes eating, and he’s still cold, and it’s still dark, and damp. He lies down on his blanket. Kyungsoo brings him another. He throws it over Chanyeol, warm and soft, and then he crawls right underneath with him, and he’s warm and soft, too. He talks to Chanyeol—quiet, unintelligible words. His breath tickles Chanyeol’s nose. Chanyeol doesn’t mind. He’s just happy he isn’t alone. He doesn’t like being alone all the time. He’s so glad Kyungsoo is here, with him, talking to him, pressed up against him. Even if his breath tickles Chanyeol’s nose. 

 

Chanyeol sneezes, and his eyes open. 

 

It’s cold on the floor—even colder than it had been in his dream—and Kyungsoo isn’t there. He’d been there when Chanyeol fell asleep, but he’s gone now, and Chanyeol hates that. He can never stay awake long enough. 

 

It’s raining outside. Raining _hard_ , beating down on the roof of the shop. It drips through the ceiling in a couple places—drips onto the Machine, no wonder it’s rusted. It’s so cold. Wind blows in through the barred door. It’s barely morning; he must have just missed Kyungsoo. Joohyun is here now, standing just inside the door to keep out of the rain, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looks miserable. 

 

Chanyeol has another blanket, too, like he had in the dream. He didn’t have it when he fell asleep. Kyungsoo must have brought it after all. 

 

But he didn’t crawl underneath it with Chanyeol. He’s not dumb enough to think that. 

 

He sighs, groans. He feels stiff and uncomfortable, and his nose is running. He feels more alone than ever. He wants to fall back asleep, but he knows he won’t. It’s time to get up for the day, to start working. He has to make sure the leaks aren’t ruining his papers. He has to keep going. 

 

At least Baekhyun will be happy about the rain. The fields needed it.

 

***

 

After the rain, the earth springs to life around X-22—and Jongin, already so sensitive to these things, hadn’t thought it was all that lacking in the first place. Now, the ground is teeming with energy. The full day of rain had been overwhelming for him. So much energy surrounding him, sinking into the soil, sinking into his hair and skin. But it’s a lot better now, a lot more steady. It feels so alive. It’s too much, but almost in a good way. He knows the earth is healing.

 

He and Minseok have been practicing a lot. Every single day, again and again and again. They practice until they’re exhausted, and then they rest and try again. Minseok pushes himself hard, and he pushes _Jongin_ hard. He teases and he pushes and he tries to rile Jongin up, until they’re both breathing hard and aching all over. And Minseok is grinning. And Jongin always has to grin, too, even when he’s annoyed and frustrated. Minseok is good at that. 

 

But Minseok can’t be with him all the time—doesn’t want to be, surely—so Jongin is alone. No one else is interested in talking to him. The majority of X-22 continues to be scared of him or to look down on him, and the rest just give him a wide berth. Jongin is used to that, by now. He’s still not used to living without Joonmyun and Yixing—he’s not sure if he’ll ever be used to that, if it’ll ever hurt less—but he’s used to everyone else avoiding him. 

 

Except Sehun. The younger brother. Jongin still...has no idea what’s going on there. He was confused when the brothers approached him, and he’s confused now, days later. After the elder, Kyungsoo, left to work, Sehun remained, but he was very quiet. Shy, maybe, or possibly just unsure why he was there, too. But he asked Jongin a few questions—his age, what bunker he came from, what he was doing in X-22. Sehun answered his own questions, too. Eighteen, like Jongin. Bunker West X-22, obviously. Ex-soldier, now Grower.

 

“I see you in the fields sometimes,” Sehun told him, all mumbly and soft, eyes averted. “With Minseok.”

 

“I work there,” Jongin answered, still waiting for Sehun to tell him what he was really after. But it never came. 

 

“Yeah,” Sehun said instead. “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.”

 

They’d stayed at the table until people came to shoo them away so they could clean up the community center, not really talking much, just awkwardly sitting in each other’s presence. It had been uncomfortable, and afterwards Sehun just said, “I’ll see you later,” and walked away. Jongin went home and spent the evening alone, as usual. Not really expecting Sehun to ever talk to him again. 

 

But he was back the next day, and the next. Jongin thinks maybe Kyungsoo is forcing him to, but Sehun doesn’t look like he resists that much. He just slumps into the seat across from Jongin with his tray of food and eats and occasionally asks questions or makes comments. “Who’s that guy Minseok is always with?” he asked one time. “He’s new.”

 

“I don’t know,” Jongin said, truthfully. “He doesn’t talk about him.”

 

“He doesn’t? But family units share everything.”

 

“He’s not in my family unit.”

 

“Minseok’s not?” Sehun looked confused. “Then who is?”

 

“No one,” Jongin told him. “It’s just me now.”

 

“Oh.” Sehun looked really...sad about that. Not that Jongin wasn’t—isn’t—sad about it, too, but he doesn’t know why Sehun would care. “In my family unit it’s me and Kyungsoo now.” 

 

“Now?” Jongin asked, even though he usually doesn’t ask questions. 

 

“Well, yeah. For a long time it was me and Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo’s parents—well, my parents, too, I guess. Mine died during and after the plague.” Sehun blushed, like it was embarrassing. “So I joined Kyungsoo’s family unit. And then when Kyungsoo was old enough, he moved out, and was in a family unit with some other older guys. So we were still brothers, I guess, but not unit brothers. But now I’m old enough to move out, so we live together, just us two. It’s nice.”

 

“Yeah,” Jongin said. Sehun and Kyungsoo match up well. Their energies don’t match, the way Jongin and Minseok’s do, but they seem to be complementary. Their personalities, too. 

 

He doesn’t match up very well with Jongin. Frequency is similar, but strength is completely different. Not that energies have to match or be complementary for a personal connection to form between two people. But he thinks about it a lot anyway. 

 

Jongin’s busy after the rainfall, and he figures Sehun probably is, too. He still visits Jongin every day at supper, and at lunch too if they end up eating at the same time. Minseok always looks at them, eyebrows dancing, and Jongin always wants to punch him for that. That’s probably why Minseok does it. He’s always trying to get Jongin to punch him. 

 

They never spend time together in the evenings, though, like Kyungsoo had suggested, until maybe a week after the rain. Jongin is eating supper, sore and tired and a little weak from his and Minseok’s practice session, and Sehun is sitting across from him, eating his own, and suddenly Sehun says, “Do you want to see my house?”

 

“What?”

 

Sehun is all pink in the face again. He gets embarrassed about the weirdest things. Jongin realizes he never told Sehun that his parents died in the plague, too. “I don’t know. I was just wondering if you wanted to see my house.”

 

“Why would I want to?” Jongin asks. “I’ve seen your house before. It’s right near mine.”

 

“I know, but you haven’t seen the inside.” Sehun shrugs. “You don’t have to. I was just wondering.”

 

Jongin thinks about it. He’ll be alone all evening if he says no. Which is something he’s getting used to. But maybe...maybe a change would be nice, even though he still doesn’t understand why Sehun is asking. He tries to convince himself it’s not some kind of trap. Kyungsoo seemed nice. He wouldn’t let his younger brother do something awful to Jongin, right? “Sure,” he says eventually, giving his own shrug. “I guess.”

 

Sehun lights up a little, which is...nice. No one ever lights up around Jongin. 

 

They go to Sehun and Kyungsoo’s home, which is basically just like Jongin’s. Heavy brick walls, crumbling in places, but still steady. Broken windows, so the wind blows right through them—good on warm summer nights, but not for when winter comes. Builders haven’t reached the houses this far away from the community center yet. The tile floors are cracked, and a few straggly weeds are peeking through somehow. The ceiling is caving in on one side. The two bed mats are pushed up against the walls farthest from it, near the stairs that look unsafe to climb. Jongin has unusable stairs in his house, too. Plus there’s mold everywhere. 

 

“Well, this is it,” Sehun says, smiling a small, dry smile. “That bed’s mine, and that one’s Kyungsoo’s. Not that we ever sleep at the same time anymore. We used to share a bed when he did—it was warmer. I mean, not that it needed to be warm, because it’s hot at night. But we did it anyway.” He shrugs, blushing again. “Anyway, I sleep alone now.”

 

“You don’t like it?” Jongin asks. 

 

“Well. It’s just that I was used to sleeping with someone else, that’s all.” Sehun shrugs again. 

 

“I get it,” Jongin says. “We’re very tactile in Delta. I don’t like having my own house.”

 

“You can sleep here if you want,” Sehun blurts, then looks more embarrassed than ever. “Well. I’m just saying. Kyungsoo doesn’t even get back until 5 in the morning, anyway. And he can just get into bed with me, or whatever. I’m just saying. If you’re lonely or something.”

 

Jongin stares at him, then shrugs. Sehun doesn’t pursue it. 

 

Eventually, Sehun gets around to asking about Jongin’s job as a sorcerer (not that he knows the difference between a sorcerer and a conjurer, until Jongin tells him). Jongin had been waiting for these questions. He figures, if Sehun wants him for anything, it’s information. He called magic cool once. Maybe he’s just curious. 

 

 _Or planning something._

 

Jongin tells him all the stuff he told Minseok, on the first day. All the basics about energy and transforming it. Sehun stares at him, enraptured, while he explains it. He asks questions, too. About what energies feel like and what his is like and what Kyungsoo’s is like. Jongin is embarrassed about how well he knows them. He could pick them out of a crowd, probably. A small crowd. 

 

“There are so many kinds of energy,” Sehun says, awed. “Can you, like, sense a body of water from far away? Can you feel a person walking toward you?”

 

Jongin hums, pursing his lips. No one’s ever asked him these questions before, so he’s never thought about the answers. “It depends on how far away the source is,” he says eventually. “And how hard I’m concentrating. And how strong the energy is. I felt the attack on the community a couple weeks ago. When. Yeah.” Pain stabs at his chest.

 

“Did you really? What did it feel like?”

 

“Bad energies feel stronger than good ones,” Jongin admits. “To me, at least, I don’t know about other people. I just felt...bad feelings. Anger. And pain. The stronger the feeling, and the more of it there is, the farther away I can feel it.”

 

Sehun nods, looking impressed. “That’s so cool,” he says. “Magic is so cool.”

 

Jongin can’t help it; he smiles, feels warm inside. No one ever tells him that. It makes him suspicious, too. No one _ever_ tells him that. 

 

“Minseok and I are getting better,” he says, maybe a little eager to show off. “We’re working on it really hard. I’m getting better at control, and Minseok is getting better at...conjuring. I don’t understand that part so well. It’s something you just...feel. But I think he’s starting to get the hang of it.”

 

“Have you healed anything yet?” Sehun asks. 

 

Jongin frowns. “It’s hard to tell. It’s not like the plants suddenly shoot out of the ground. They’re just supposed to grow _faster._ And we don’t quite know what it’s supposed to feel like when we do it right. We were supposed to have mentors.”

 

“Right.” Sehun goes somber again. “Well, good luck.”

 

“Thank you.” Jongin smiles a little. 

 

But when he goes to bed that evening, he’s worried again. 

 

What does Sehun want from him?

 

 

 

 

“Saw you had a hot date last night,” Minseok teases him the next day as they rest in between practice runs. “Picked up a cutie, huh?”

 

“I don’t even know what that means,” Jongin grouches. He’s tired, and his limbs are stiff, and he’s in no mood for Minseok’s antagonizing today. 

 

“Don’t know the kid well, but I mean. If he’s interested in you, he might be a little desperate.” Minseok’s eyebrows quirk. 

 

Jongin sighs. “Let’s just try this again.” They’re sitting a few meters away from where a row of peas are climbing up a trellis, looking droopy and sad. 

 

“Have I hit a nerve, Nini baby?” Minseok jostles him a little. 

 

“Shut up. Let’s practice.” Jongin cracks his knuckles, closes his eyes. 

 

“What if I wasn’t done resting?”

 

“Then finish,” Jongin says, breathing out, drawing the energy towards him, into his bones. Slow, steady. Not a rush. Just a stream. 

 

“Who’s the older one here?” Minseok asks, pushing back. “I wanted to keep resting.”

 

“Too bad,” Jongin grumps, pushing harder. He breaks through Minseok’s feeble walls; the elder wasn’t trying that hard anyway. But now Jongin’s already pushing—too fast, too hard. 

 

“Ah, fuck, slow up. That’s way too much.”

 

“Then do something with it,” Jongin says, trying to keep his cool, to reign it in. 

 

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so cranky—” Minseok hisses. “Fuck, shit.”

 

“Then _do_ something with it,” Jongin repeats, more angrily. He’s trying so hard to get a good grip on the energy flowing through their connection, but it feels like the burn of a rope as it pulls through your hands, the wrench of your shoulders as you try to hold onto something being yanked out of your hold. It hurts, and it makes him more frustrated than anything. 

 

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?” Minseok asks, grinding his teeth together. 

 

“Just _change it_ ,” Jongin presses, settling on a pace he can manage—it’s definitely pushing Minseok’s limits, but it’s the best he can do. 

 

“Ow, ow, owowowowow—”

 

“ _Change it._ ” 

 

“I’m _trying._ ” 

 

“Then _do it._ ” 

 

“Why don’t you, you fucking—” And then, in a moment of sudden brilliance, a sharp spike of energy zings through Jongin, out through the ground where Jongin hastily directs it. It feels like the crack of lightning that had made the ground explode when Q-16 attacked, but the energy is different, lighter, clearer. 

 

Jongin opens his eyes. The peas are dotted with tiny white flowers. 

 

Everything is quiet for a few seconds, and then Minseok whoops. “Hell yeah!” he yells, right in Jongin’s ear. “Hell yeah, we did that!”

 

Jongin gapes. “We did that?”

 

“I don’t know how we fucking did it, but we did!” Minseok is grinning, _beaming_ in Jongin’s face. He tackles Jongin to the ground, too hard, and rubs his knuckles against Jongin’s scalp. Jongin thinks it’s meant to be fond, maybe. 

 

“I can’t believe it.” Jongin has to laugh. “We really did it?”

 

“We sure as hell did _something._ ” Minseok squeezes Jongin around the shoulders, rolls over him, elbows digging into Jongin’s gut. 

 

“I nearly drained the whole energy pocket,” Jongin admits, sweating. There’s barely a trickle left under the garden. “That’s probably really bad.”

 

“So? We’re working on it, Jongin. We’re getting somewhere.” Minseok laughs. “We’re fucking wizards.”

 

Jongin grins, staring at the peas, the flowers. “Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!  
>  
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter here!


	9. Chapter 9

Since the beginning of his night shifts guarding Chanyeol's workshop, Kyungsoo has played around with his sleep schedule a lot. He’s not used to sleeping during the day and staying awake until 5 in the morning, especially with X-22's fairly strict work-and-sleep schedules, so he had to train his body militantly in the beginning. Basically all he did was work and try to sleep, because despite how exhausted his body was, it didn't want to sleep when the sun was out. 

 

Now, though, after over a month of it, it's finally getting into the swing of things. Kyungsoo's work shift is ten hours long, and he usually needs a nine-hour stretch to sleep (because Sehun occasionally wakes him up in the middle of it), which leaves him with five hours of free time. One hour is spent getting ready for his shift and eating his first meal of his day, and another is spent preparing and eating his last meal of his day, when all the cooks are just waking up to make breakfast.

 

Those remaining three hours he's been shifting around constantly over the course of his night shift career, trying to decide if it's better to be awake after or before he works. Now, finally, he's settled on before. Everyone's working then, but at least they're awake.

 

He spends time with Sehun, sometimes, visiting his unit brother in the fields and doing his duty as older brother—asking Sehun invasive questions, making sure he's eating well, masking his concerns with a layer of sarcasm and teasing. He pesters Sehun about Jongin, demanding friendship progress updates and chastising Sehun when he grumbles about not needing more friends. While being a very comfortable and sweet kid with people he knows well, Sehun is terrible with making new friends, always awkward and unsure and coming off as cold. He requires constant prodding if he's ever going to get anywhere. And Kyungsoo is more than willing to be the prodder. Sehun has a lot of love and nowhere to direct it.

 

Today, though, Kyungsoo visits Seulgi on her shift instead. He and Seulgi have been close friends for years, even before they became comrades in arms—Seulgi was a firecracker of a kid, which is just what quiet, sullen younger Kyungsoo had needed. They probably would have lived together when they came of age, if Seulgi hadn't had a brother to live with, and then a partner. And he barely gets to see her anymore, apart from a few shared words when they switch shifts. So he goes early today, furtively picking a few small, ripe cucumbers as he passes a field of them on his way.

 

"Hey, Prince Charming," she calls as soon as she spots Kyungsoo approaching, smiling wide. "What are you doing out here?"

 

"Came to rescue my favourite damsel in distress," Kyungsoo says, handing her a cucumber. Seulgi punches him. Hard.

 

"I never played that role and you know it," she says, crunching into the snack. "If anyone was in distress, it was you."

 

Kyungsoo chuckles, unable to deny it. Seulgi was bigger than him for quite a while when they were kids, as girls often are. She beat him up easily. 

 

They stand there, chatting quietly and catching up on what’s been going on in their lives while they sleep at completely opposite times, until Kyungsoo suddenly picks up on another voice in the background. He stops, frowns. “What’s that?”

 

Seulgi blinks in surprise. “What?”

 

As soon as they’re both quiet, Kyungsoo recognizes the voice. “Is that Chanyeol?”

 

“The Sixer? Of course, he’s the only one around here, isn’t he?” Seulgi snickers. 

 

Kyungsoo tries to peer through the barred door without being seen—he came here to visit his friend, not to spy. “Who is he talking to?”

 

“Uh, I don’t know. He’s always just talking. I think he’s a little nuts.” Seulgi gives Kyungsoo a look like he might be nuts, too. 

 

“He just talks to no one?” Kyungsoo feels a pang in his chest. 

 

“All day,” Seulgi says, nodding. “Well, on and off. You’ve never noticed?”

 

Kyungsoo just shakes his head mutely, stepping closer to the door to look inside. It takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the relative dimness inside the storehouse, but when they do, he can make out Chanyeol limping around the room, one crutch tucked under his arm to support himself. His leg’s been improving rapidly, and he doesn’t complain about the pain anymore, but it’ll be a while until it’s fully healed. 

 

“—know I put it somewhere around here,” Chanyeol is saying, his voice filtering through the door. “Can’t have just wandered away, you know? No legs. I know the feeling. Just kidding, I have legs. It’s just that they prefer I stay in one place. But ah, no time for that, my friends. Things to do, killing machines to fix. Fucking wrenches to find. Where is it?” He mutters quietly for a minute, shoving around bits of rusted metal and broken electronics with the bottom of his crutch. Then he brightens. “Aha! There you are, you little bugger. Thought you could get away with doing no work today, did you? Not on my watch. Come on, you piece of shit, we have bolts to unscrew. And if they don’t unscrew, well, we’ll just have to find another way to get in there. That’s where my friend sledgehammer comes in handy.” He bends over at the waist, balancing carefully, and picks the wrench up before hobbling over to a large, black, oily contraption. “I’m just kidding, big guy, I wouldn’t do that to you. Mustn’t upset the balance of...life. Or whatever.” 

 

Kyungsoo watches, swallowing hard, as Chanyeol continues chattering aimlessly, narrating his work, responding to his own questions. He laughs at his own jokes, chastises himself for mistakes, argues his own points. It makes Kyungsoo’s chest ache. 

 

He watches Chanyeol bend a flap of metal back and forth for a minute straight as he explains to his pliers why he likes his bed-blanket in this spot on cloudy nights but that spot on clear ones, back and forth and back and forth, and then Kyungsoo clears his throat and says, “Hey hot stuff.”

 

The flap of metal finally breaks off as Chanyeol jolts in surprise, and one razor-sharp edge catches on the palm of his hand. “Shhhhhit,” Chanyeol hisses, and dark blood begins to drip onto the floor within seconds. 

 

“Holy fuck!” Kyungsoo says loudly, eyes widening. He wheels around, sticks out his hand. “Seulgi, keys!”

 

Seulgi stares at him dumbly for a moment, then fumbles at her waist for the heavy padlock key for the door. Kyungsoo all but yanks it out of her hands the second it’s unlatched from her belt, shoving it into the lock. A few clumsy seconds later, he stumbles through, already reaching for Chanyeol’s hand. 

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, yanking Chanyeol’s hand towards his roughly. It’s wrapped in dirty, oily cloths—they’re already soaking through with blood. “Fuck, Chanyeol.”

 

“I’m fine,” Chanyeol says quietly, but his hand is shaking in Kyungsoo’s grasp. 

 

“Seulgi, go get some clean cloths or bandages or _something_ ,” Kyungsoo calls over his shoulder. “And some water, please. We can ask later if we have any antiseptic.” 

 

She doesn’t respond, so Kyungsoo assumes she’s left. Hissing, he focuses his attention on Chanyeol’s bleeding hand—when he peels the cloth away, he sees a long gash from between his thumb and first finger all the way to the heel of his palm. It looks deep, too, enough that it's oozing blood at an alarming rate. He knows, in the back of his mind, that it's not that serious. Chanyeol has moved all of his fingers, so the metal didn't tear through any ligaments, and it's not like the wound is _gushing_. But there's blood all over his hand, dripping down his arm and onto the floor, and it looks gory and awful. 

 

The rags Kyungsoo peeled away were filthy even before they got soaked with blood, and he's not sure whether he should try to use them to staunch the flow or burn the things.

 

"Don't you have anything cleaner than this?" he asks, pressing down on the inside of Chanyeol's wrist in a futile attempt at slowing down the blood flow. "God, this looks nasty. Where the hell is Seulgi? How long does it take to run there and back? I should have just told her to grab something from my house, it's way closer."

 

"I'm okay," Chanyeol says again.

 

"You're literally dripping blood all over me," Kyungsoo says, shaking his head. "Fuck, sorry, this is going to hurt like hell."

 

Chanyeol doesn't make a sound as Kyungsoo gives in and presses the dirty cloth to his palm, trying to stop the bleeding. Kyungsoo bites his tongue not to whimper himself.

 

They stand there in silence for a minute, with Kyungsoo holding Chanyeol's hand, holding the rag against it, until Kyungsoo quietly says, "I'm sorry for startling you. This is my fault.”

 

Chanyeol huffs out a breathy laugh. "It's okay. I'm just clumsy."

 

Kyungsoo shakes his head, but doesn't bother arguing. He knows it won't get them anywhere.

 

Seulgi turns up a few moments later, bearing the soft white cloth and compression bandages they keep for dressing battle wounds. Kyungsoo hasn't participated in a skirmish since the one where they took Chanyeol. He's always sleeping through them. "Here," she pants, handing them over. "But you're explaining this to Victoria."

 

"Sure," Kyungsoo mutters, already uncapping the tin flask of water she brought with. Chanyeol reaches for it with his uninjured hand, but Kyungsoo just knocks it away. "I got you," he says, trickling the water over Chanyeol's palm carefully. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he repeats, rubbing away the grit and rust and oil that had transferred to the wound. Chanyeol doesn't make a sound through it, even as his hand twitches and flinches away from his touch. As soon as it's as clean as it'll get—he's out of water and not about to send Seulgi back for more—he gentles his touch, folding a square of cloth over the oozing wound and securing it in place with careful fingers. When he's finished, he looks up at Chanyeol with anxious questions on his tongue.

 

Chanyeol stares back down at him, eyes wide and watching, his face just a few feet away, and the questions die in Kyungsoo's throat.

 

"Sorry," he whispers again, rubbing at the unmarred skin under Chanyeol's thumb under the pretext of wiping away blood or dirt or...something. He doesn't know. He just does it.

 

Chanyeol's throat clicks audibly as he swallows. "I'm alright," he says, voice thick.

 

"Okay," is Kyungsoo's soft reply.

 

"So, um," Seulgi says, and Kyungsoo jumps—he'd completely forgotten she was even still _here_. "I'm just gonna assume you're taking over my shift early. I'll bring you supper, okay? Cheers."

 

Chanyeol cracks a half smile, then gently pulls his hand out of Kyungsoo's. "I should get back to work."

 

"Will you be okay?" Kyungsoo asks, glancing over his shoulder to watch Seulgi leave. "I can't believe you're injured again, right after your leg was just healing."

 

"It's fine, Kyungsoo," Chanyeol insists, smiling a little wider this time. "Who needs two hands, anyway?"

 

"Um, everyone?" Kyungsoo shakes his head. "It's gonna be hard to do much fixing with one hand."

 

Chanyeol just shrugs. "Whatever. But I might ask you to help if I need extra hands with my puzzle box."

 

Kyungsoo snorts. "Shouldn't you be more concerned with your main task?"

 

"Ehhhh, who cares about that anyway." Chanyeol waves a dismissive hand. "Big piece of shit."

 

Kyungsoo bites his tongue. "Don't think you'll be able to fix it?"

 

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I don't know. Maybe." He pauses, and his little grin falters. "I don't— I don't know."

 

He gets a look on his face, distant and conflicted, and Kyungsoo hates it. He hates that it reminds him of what Chanyeol really is. A prisoner of war. A man fighting for his survival.

 

“So,” Kyungsoo exhales. “Looks like I’m starting my shift earlier than usual today.”

 

“Oh, shoot,” Chanyeol says, smiling again. “What a bummer.”

 

Kyungsoo’s lips turn up automatically in response. “Yeah.”

 

“I guess I should get back to work, too,” Chanyeol sighs, lifting his bandaged hand to wiggle his fingers tentatively. He winces immediately. “I do love pain.”

 

Kyungsoo sighs. “I’m sorry.”

 

Chanyeol peers at him through his over-long, limp fringe. “Kyungsoo. It’s fine. You’ve already done a lot for me.”

 

It hurts to hear him say that. What has Kyungsoo really done for him? Saved him from certain death just to hold him captive, to force him to complete an impossible task? He’s sure Chanyeol knows that, too. 

 

“Keep the wound clean,” he says at last, avoiding Chanyeol’s heavy gaze. “Let me know if you need anything.”

 

“Sure,” Chanyeol says, and then Kyungsoo retreats to his usual seat to watch. 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, just before Kyungsoo heads to bed, Victoria seeks him out. “Kyungsoo,” she says, in a tone of voice that makes him want to shrink away. “I’m not trying to imply anything, but I think it’d be best if you spent less time in the building with the prisoner. You should only be going through that door to feed him and for emergencies.”

 

Kyungsoo has no idea how his commanding officer even knows how much time he spends inside Chanyeol’s workshop, but he doesn’t have time to ponder over that. A bubble of panic swells in his chest, and he tries to force it down. “With all due respect,” he says carefully, weighing his words, “I think he’ll go insane if I don’t. And it’d take him significantly longer to get anything done without help.”

 

Victoria levels him with a hard stare. “He could be dangerous, Kyungsoo. He’s a soldier. And an enemy.”

 

“He’s never acted out in a way I would call dangerous before,” Kyungsoo says, trying not to sound like he’s arguing. 

 

“I do not want you to trust him.” Victoria lifts one eyebrow slightly. “And I do not want you to form an attachment, either.”

 

Kyungsoo swallows hard. “No, ma’am.”

 

Victoria holds her stare for a moment longer, as if to drive her point home, and then she shifts and says, “How’s progress on the Machine?”

 

“Slow,” Kyungsoo admits. “It looks messy at this point. But he says a lot of essential parts are still usable.”

 

His commanding officer hums and nods. “I’ll tell Boa. Make sure you keep a close eye on him, Kyungsoo. His leg is healing up.”

 

Kyungsoo bites his lip and nods. Victoria begins to turn, dismissing him silently, and he quickly speaks up. “Could we—” He fidgets. “Could we get the poor man some scissors? He can barely see through his hair.”

 

Victoria’s lips twitch, and for a moment, she looks disappointed. “You did your entire shift without your blaster on you, soldier.”

 

“What?” Kyungsoo blinks, fumbles at his waist. His holster isn’t there. Of course it isn’t—he’d gone yesterday to visit Seulgi, not to start his watch. “I—”

 

Victoria shakes her head. “I’ll ask Seulgi to deliver some scissors while Joohyun’s on shift. Get some rest, Kyungsoo. Don’t forget what I said.”

 

Kyungsoo gulps and nods, and when she dismisses him this time, he scampers back to his house guiltily. 

 

He knows she’ll expect him to stay out of the storehouse from now on. But how can he be expected to follow those orders? 

 

And yet, at the same time, can he really afford to get into anymore trouble?

 

***

 

Yifan has no idea what the hell he’s doing. A month ago, he left his community, his home, to go after his best friend. And now he’s, what, homesteading? How did this even happen to him? He knows, in his heart of hearts, that he can’t stay here. He has to do something. Luhan still hasn’t returned, and Yifan’s all but given up hope—if he’s honest with himself, Luhan is probably either dead or taken captive. But at the same time, that thought is so fucking depressing that Yifan is kind of just...avoiding it altogether. And even if Luhan is alive, he has no clue where Yifan is. If he returns—or has returned—and Yifan isn’t where Luhan left him, what then? What is he supposed to do?

 

And in the meantime, he’s living with Zitao, who turned out to be a pretty sweet kid, if a little wishy-washy. He expects Yifan to do his fair share of work, but as it turns out, there’s not all that much work to be done. They tend Zitao’s garden, they mend minor tears in their clothes, they do the washing with water Zitao brings in from the well in X-22’s fields. They do the cooking together, they try to figure out solutions to little problems they have around the house. It’s...quiet. It’s peaceful. And Yifan learns a lot. 

 

“How long were you a rogue before you ended up here?” Zitao giggles, pulling Yifan’s jacket out of his hands to sew on a loose button himself after Yifan jabs himself with the needle multiple times. “How did you survive on your own?”

 

Yifan huffs, sucking on his smarting fingertip. “I just let my life fall to ruin before I came here,” he mutters. 

 

“Clearly,” Zitao says with a matronly tsk. “What did you eat? Your first cooking attempts were _terrible_. I can say that now, because they’ve improved. A little.”

 

Yifan makes a face at him. “I just ate whatever.”

 

“Raw? I hope so, for the sake of your taste buds.” Zitao grins at him. 

 

Yifan jostles him with his elbow, grinning as Zitao laughs and falls over into the grass. He’s honestly...grown to like Zitao a lot in the past three weeks. Things were awkward in the beginning, stilted and forced, with neither of them quite trusting the other, never able to relax around each other and yet always in close contact. But things have changed a lot in the past weeks. Yifan has never had a little brother—Chanyeol was the closest thing he ever had to a brother at all—but that’s what Zitao has turned into. 

 

It’s kind of worrying, especially considering Yifan’s been lying to the kid nonstop since he met him. The more Zitao asks after his past, his background, the more Yifan has to make stuff up, layers upon layers of lies. He’s constantly worried he’s going to forget something he’s said and Zitao will call him out. But what is he supposed to do now? He’s already set all the traps for himself. Now he just has to be careful not to step into any of them by accident. 

 

“You okay?” Zitao asks later that evening, handing back Yifan’s jacket, its loose button sewn back on and the fraying seam repaired. 

 

Yifan swallows hard and nods, tearing his gaze away from X-22’s fields. This is the problem—he can’t even worry about his friends without having to make up a reason why he’s being quiet. “Fine,” he says. “Just...thinking.”

 

“About your family?” Zitao asks, soft and sad. 

 

Yifan nods slowly. He’s made up tons of stuff about his fictional family recently. He’s starting to think he knows more about them than his real, biological family at this point. 

 

“Do you think you’ll recognize them?” Zitao asks him. Always asking questions. “Do you remember what they looked like?”

 

Yifan offers a vague shrug. “Maybe I’ll recognize them when I see them. They probably won’t recognize me, right?”

 

“But they’ll know you by name,” Zitao says. 

 

“Yeah. I hope so.” 

 

They fall silent for a few moments, and then Zitao says, “I guess, when you leave, I’ll finally join X-22 like I’ve been planning.”

 

“Yeah, you think so?” That, Yifan has learned, is why Zitao continues to farm such a large plot of land—much larger than one person needs. He’s hoping to buy his way into X-22, using food that’ll be scarce as they head into cooler months. He’s been trading already, small amounts of vegetables for things like solar units and supplies. 

 

Zitao nods. “I can’t stay here all winter. The tent won’t hold out the cold, and we have no idea what the weather will be like. I need thicker walls, more stability. More support.” He looks sad. 

 

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to take you,” Yifan assures him, nudging him with his shoulder. He wants to say _join Q-16, they’ve taken in the needy before, they know how to treat them right._ But Zitao never lets him forget what they did—or rather, what he believes they did—to his sister. “There are no other communities you’d rather join?” he asks anyway, hopeful. He’s grown attached to the younger man. He doesn’t want him to become an enemy. 

 

But Zitao shakes his head. “No. I think I’d like it here. I mean, in an ideal world, I could stay where I am, but...I’ll be lonely.” He shoots Yifan a small smile. “I was lonely before you came. I’ll be even lonelier once you leave.”

 

Yifan swallows hard and ruffles his hair. 

 

“I think I’ll like it here, though,” Zitao says again, looking out at the community before them. “They seem nice.”

 

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Yifan can’t help but say, venom sneaking into his voice. _You think Q-16 took someone from you, but X-22 took more from me._

 

“That’s true,” Zitao says, looking at Yifan, and Yifan quickly looks away. 

 

That night, Yifan falls asleep wondering anxiously if he’ll have to attempt a double rescue on his own, and wakes up to Zitao shaking his shoulder. 

“What?” he says immediately, sitting bolt upright. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

 

Zitao is kneeling at his side, eyes wide in the slice of moonlight that falls in through the open tent flap. His voice is unsteady, unsure as he says, “I was thinking about what you said.”

 

Yifan squints at him, puzzled. “What did I say? In my sleep?”

 

“No, earlier.” Zitao taps his knee nervously. “About appearances being deceiving.”

 

Yifan feels like his stomach has turned to lead. “O-oh, oh yeah? What about it?”

 

Zitao’s gulp is audible in the following silence. “I just. I have something to tell you. That I was hiding, I guess, before.”

 

“What?” Yifan can feel panic rising, anxiety pulsing through him. 

 

Zitao twists the edge of his shirt in his hands. “Promise me you won’t hate me?”

 

“I promise,” Yifan says quickly. What’s one more lie?

 

Zitao’s gaze is piercing even in the darkness. “I’m a conjurer.”

 

Yifan stops short. “A...what?”

 

“A conjurer. I’m paranormal.”

 

Yifan just...stares. “What are you talking about?”

 

He almost feels bad, because Zitao looks like he’s about to cry. “I know you said you’re neutral, but I was worried about what you would say. I was worried you would hate me. So many people hate us, so I was worried. My sister, she—she wasn’t my sister. She was my sorcerer partner. She was killed because—” His face crumples. “I was just scared.” 

 

Yifan doesn’t respond, still busy trying to _process_. He doesn’t know what all the terms Zitao uses mean, but he’s catching the general gist of it. He understands what Zitao is. 

 

“You don’t hate me, do you?” Zitao asks desperately. “I know I lied to you, but I’m being honest now. I want to be honest. Are you going to leave now?”

 

“I— Tao—” 

 

“I just wanted to be honest,” Zitao says quietly, ducking his head.

 

Yifan shakes his head, takes a moment to take it all in. Zitao is...paranormal. He’s one of _them_. He’s one of the people Community Leader has been warning them about since the beginning, calling them _freaks_ , calling them _dangerous_. Calling them self-serving and supremacist. That’s the image Yifan has of paranormals. 

 

But Zitao is none of those things. Yifan has been living with him for three weeks, and all he has seen from the younger man is compassion, and kindness, and understanding. Zitao has offered Yifan a home and food, has trusted him in the bed next to his as he sleeps—and Yifan has trusted him in return. Zitao says things like _all beings are born equal_ and _life is hard enough without people fighting to be better than each other_. 

 

“I won’t say I’m not surprised,” Yifan says slowly, deliberately. “But I don’t...hate you.”

 

“But you’re still leaving?” Zitao says, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

 

Yifan barely even pauses before he says, “No.”

 

“Really?” Zitao’s face lights up. 

 

Yifan seeks out his face in the dark, offers his best smile. “No. Not yet.”

 

“Good. I’m glad.” Zitao laughs, flops down on his bed mat. “I didn’t like keeping it a secret from you. It’s just who I am, you know? It’s not something I can change, and it doesn’t change who I am. I didn’t like lying to you.”

 

Yifan lies down slowly, turning away to squeeze his eyes shut. _Shit._ “Thanks, Tao,” he says softly. 

 

“I knew you wouldn’t hate me,” Zitao says, sounding pleased. “You’re not like them.”

 

Yifan exhales a long breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. 

 

_Shit._

 

***

 

Most mornings, Baekhyun wakes up to the sound of voices. Liyin’s, asking how he’s feeling. Yixing’s, telling him what they’ll be working on that day. Jongdae’s, with his usual cheerful, “Got any important secrets for me today?” He likes waking up to voices. Anyone’s really. If people are talking to him, he doesn’t have time to sit and brood. He doesn’t have time to think about how much he hates being awake.

 

But some days, inevitably, he wakes up to silence. 

 

The sun streams in through his window, filtering through the leaves of Chanyeol’s plant to dapple his floor and the end of his bed. Baekhyun draws a few breaths, stretching his aching ribs. For a few minutes, everything is still and peaceful. For a few minutes, everything is good. 

 

And then he struggles to sit up, arms weak and trembling, breaths coming short, and his still-healing ribs protest, and everything feels so jumbled and fuzzy in his head, and in the end he just slumps against the wall behind him and blinks back tears, miserable. He’s like a fucking child and he _hates_ it. 

 

Wiping his eyes roughly, he reaches out for the cup next to his bed, half-full of water. His hand shakes no matter how hard he tries to keep it steady, but he gets his fingers around it and tightens his grip as much as he can manage, concentrating hard. He’s exhausted by the time he lifts it off the side table, his arm tired and his entire body aching, but he tries hard, he doesn’t give up. 

 

He gets the cup three-quarters of the way to his mouth, and then it slips out from between his fingers, bouncing off his bed mat and clattering to the floor loudly in a mess of spilled water. Baekhyun chokes on his own frustration, wanting so badly to hit something, or throw something, but _incapable_ of even doing that much. So he just sits in his bed and bites back a scream. 

 

“Baek?” comes a soft, familiar voice. Yixing pokes his head in, looking concerned. “I didn’t know you were awake. What happened?”

 

Baekhyun grinds his teeth together. “Cup,” he spits, gesturing. 

 

Yixing hums, frowning. “Not a good start to the day.”

 

Baekhyun crosses his arms with some effort and angles his body away, towards the wall, so Yixing won’t see his how hard it is for him not to burst into tears. It’s just...so fucking hard sometimes. He’s healing, he’s getting better, but everything is moving so slowly. Everything still hurts, day in and day out. Physical therapy is torture, and while he’s starting to remember things, piece by piece, nothing seems important or useful or _whole_. He has to constantly ask questions, ask if he’s remembered to take care of Chanyeol’s plant, ask if Jongdae’s already been by that day, ask for help, ask to be fed. He cries too easily, has temper tantrums too quickly. Things are getting better, but it’s too slow. 

 

And through it all, he feels like he’s so alone. Everyone is busy, working hard to keep the community afloat—they don’t have time for him. Jongdae can only stop by so often. Liyin has other patients. His mother is a hardworking Caretaker for young children. His father pretends Baekhyun isn’t even his son. And his friends are...gone, dead. 

 

How can he be expected to do this on his own? 

 

“I’ll get this cleaned up, no worries,” Yixing says, entering the room fully to pick up Baekhyun’s tin cup and set it on the table again before finding a rag to mop up the spill. “You thirsty? I’ll get you more water, one second.”

 

Baekhyun doesn’t respond until he returns, the cup only halfway refilled in case of another spill, and hands it to him carefully, hovering so he can assist if needed. Baekhyun drains it as quickly as he can, then hands it back as he says, “Where’s Liyin?”

 

“Tending to some fevers, I think. Nothing serious, I’m guessing, but people are antsy after the plague and all.” Yixing shrugs. “I’m not sure how much she’ll be able to be in here today.”

 

Baekhyun sighs softly, staring at his hands as they tremble uncontrollably in his lap. “No physio, then, I guess.”

 

“You still have to do your stretches, though,” Yixing says, shaking a finger at him. “No slacking.”

 

His tone of voice is teasing, like he expects Baekhyun to whine childishly in response. But Baekhyun just sighs again, shrugs. “When is Jongdae coming in?”

 

“You slept through breakfast, so he should be in for lunch in about...four hours?” Yixing disappears briefly, returns with a tray of cold food. “Here, you’re probably hungry.”

 

Baekhyun shrugs, listlessly picking up a spoonful of congealed oatmeal. He rarely has an appetite, and the food he’s served doesn’t help, but he shoves it into his mouth anyway. 

 

“Joonmyun is still sleeping, too,” Yixing says, sitting down in the chair next to Baekhyun’s bed. “He’s not feeling very well, either. He just ate and went back to bed.” He fiddles with Baekhyun’s blankets as he talks. “It’s hard for us to work when we’re sick, same as if we’re tired. They’re closely related. So the more he rests, the faster he’ll get better.”

 

Baekhyun just nods, keeps eating. 

 

“So it’s just me and you for a while. But that’s alright. Right? We can spend some time together, just us two.” Yixing smiles at him, pats his leg through the blanket. 

 

Baekhyun stares into his bowl. “I’m not a child,” he says finally. 

 

“What?”

 

“You always...treat me like a baby. I hate it. Stop.”

 

Yixing stares at him, blinking wordlessly. “I’m—”

 

“I already know that I’m like a fucking...infant. You don’t have to remind me...constantly.” God. Sometimes the words come to Baekhyun easily, just _there_ and rolling off his tongue, and then other times he has to search for each and every one. 

 

Yixing is quiet for a few moments, and Baekhyun expects him to deny it, to say that’s not what he’s doing. But instead, when he speaks, it’s to say, “What do I do that you don’t like?’

 

Baekhyun shrugs, stabs his spoon weakly into his bowl. “You’re always lying to me. Telling me things are going to be great, soon. But I know they’re not. I have a brain, even if it’s shit.”

 

“So what should I say instead?” Yixing asks, patient, soft, like always. 

 

“Be _honest._ ” Baekhyun huffs. “Be...brutally honest with me. Don’t...sugarcoat. Instead of saying _You’re fine, everything’s going to be fine_ , just...straight-up tell me _Things are going to fucking suck today, Baekhyun._ Just tell me.”

 

Yixing laughs a little. “That’s what you want to hear?” 

 

“Of course not. But it’s the truth.”

 

When Baekhyun looks at Yixing, he’s smiling. “Alright,” he says. “I can try. But correct me, in the future, when I mess up. Okay?”

 

Baekhyun shrugs. “Sure.”

 

“What else do I do?” 

 

“You…” Baekhyun pauses, feels his attention start to slip, and forcefully pulls it back. “You use that tone of voice. Like my mother uses with the children. All...light, and soft.”

 

Yixing laughs. “That’s just my voice, Baekhyun. I can’t change that.”

 

“Well, don’t use it with me,” Baekhyun says stubbornly, frowning. “Like, get angry sometimes, you know? You’re a fucking...prisoner. Act like it. Act like Joonmyun. Swear sometimes. Call me a...fucking spoiled brat. Throw things.”

 

Yixing smiles, propping his elbow on the edge of Baekhyun’s bed mat and settling his chin in it. “I don’t want to.”

 

“Why? You’re...being kept here against your will. You should be furious.”

 

“Things aren’t ideal,” Yixing relents. “And there is one person I miss and worry about back home. But things weren’t ideal there, either. It doesn’t feel very different, to be helping you here, and to be helping them in X-22. It’s equally fulfilling work, even if it was by choice out there. Watching the plants grow, and watching you heal. I’m not exactly...happy, here. My freedom is limited and I’m not always treated well. But I’m here with my sorcerer, and I’m doing what I can to help.”

 

Baekhyun stares at him. “You’re...insane,” he says, shaking his head. 

 

Yixing smiles. “That’s what Joonmyun tells me.”

 

A few moments of silence stretch between them, and then Baekhyun sighs and says, “Your optimism is...infuriating.”

 

“Joonmyun tells me that, too,” Yixing says, chuckling. “But he needs it. And I need it. We can’t both be miserable and broody. We’d die.”

 

Baekhyun just shakes his head and looks away. “No more babying,” he says, just so they’re clear. 

 

“I’ll do my best,” Yixing agrees. 

 

 

 

 

An hour drags by, mostly in silence. Joonmyun is still asleep, Liyin is still busy, and Yixing reads quietly, although he does offer to read to Baekhyun once. Baekhyun declines; he always gets the names mixed up and zones out and gets lost. He begrudgingly appreciates the offer, though. 

 

“Stop ruminating,” Yixing says out of nowhere, without even bothering to look up from his book. Baekhyun realizes abruptly how generous it was of Liyin to give the paranormals something to do. But then, it’s her job as a healer to keep people sane. 

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Baekhyun asks. He doesn’t even try to pretend that’s not what he was doing. He’s been silent for ages, frowning into space. 

 

Yixing looks up at him. “I know things are really bad for you right now, Baek,” he says. Baekhyun wonders when he started using that nickname with him, like they’re friends. Chanyeol used to call him that. “But you won’t feel better by sitting there thinking about how bad they are. You’re just letting your unhappiness fester. It’s not healthy.”

 

“Well, _what do you suggest_ ,” Baekhyun growls. “Don’t tell me to...entertain myself and then not give me any ideas. People aren’t exactly…” He closes his eyes, grasps for the word. Yixing waits, patient as always, but doesn’t intercede. “ _Piling up_ to distract me.”

 

“ _Lining_ up,” Yixing says gently. It’s not mocking or superior. It’s just a correction, to help Baekhyun connect the phrase to the meaning he’d been aiming for. “And I’m right here.”

 

“ _You’re_ lining up to distract me?” Baekhyun asks. 

 

Yixing smiles. “Hold on a second.” He stands up, puts his book down, and disappears into the attached room. 

 

A moment later he returns, holding a deck of cards. “Fold your legs.”

 

“What?” 

 

Yixing gestures at Baekhyun’s blanket. “Scoot. I can’t fit if you have your legs stretched out like that.”

 

Baekhyun feels completely baffled, but he works on folding his legs in front of him, using his hands to pull them into place when they refuse to do as he tells them to. Yixing waits until he’s made enough room to sit down on the end of his bed, mirroring his position across from him. He slaps down the deck of cards in front of him—it’s really just a stack of paper cut into card-sized rectangles, with numbers and pictures drawn onto them with pencil. They look unfamiliar. “We don’t have these kinds of cards,” he says uncertainly. 

 

“I figured. Joonmyun had never seen them before, either. I think we just had them in our bunker.” Yixing laughs. 

 

Baekhyun frowns. “Wasn’t Joonmyun _in_ your bunker?”

 

Yixing shakes his head, sorting out the deck into piles. “No, I came from Gamma. Our bunker was close to Delta’s. I came of age while we were still underground, but didn’t find a matched sorcerer among my group. There were three of us—two conjurers and a sorcerer—who couldn’t find a match among Gamma, so we were sent over to Delta to try our luck there. I met Joonmyun there, and we matched up really well, so I joined Delta Group. The sorcerer found a match, too. The other conjurer didn’t, so I think he went over to Beta. That was, hmm, five years ago?”

 

“Oh,” Baekhyun says, looking over the cards. “So there’s like...a paranormal...matchmaking system?”

 

“Magical Matchmaking,” Yixing says, nodding. “Kind of, I guess. It’s pretty important to find a match, so we do what we need to. Romantic matches just happen the usual way,” he adds with a laugh. 

 

“But you found both in Joonmyun?” Baekhyun asks. 

 

Yixing blinks at him, then snorts. “A magical match has nothing to do with romantic compatibility, and especially not attraction.”

 

Baekhyun fidgets. “You’re not…?”

 

“You non-paranormals are always asking that,” Yixing says with a smile. “He’s my sorcerer partner, not my husband. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be close. We’re still partners. We need to be.”

 

Baekhyun huffs, reaching out to pick up a card just so he has something to do with his hands. “I don’t...know much about paranormals.”

 

“Yeah, I get the feeling all of Q-16 is like that,” Yixing says with a slight smile. Then he straightens, plucking the card from Baekhyun’s fingers. “Alright, listen, I’ll explain this really well.”

 

Baekhyun sighs, slumping where he sits. “I don’t want to play...memory games, Yixing. Liyin plays them with me...enough. They make me feel like shit. Not better. I thought you were trying to...distract me, or whatever.”

 

“This isn’t a memory game,” Yixing says. “It’s just a game. Mostly of luck, but also strategy. Listen.”

 

Baekhyun sniffs crankily, but it’s not like he has much else to do, so he stays silent and listens as Yixing describes each card class and value, and then how to match them, how to use the cards he’s handed, how to trade them in for others. Baekhyun has to ask a lot of questions, has to have the rules repeated to him time and time again, but Yixing doesn’t act annoyed or frustrated. He just explains again, over and over. 

 

“So, before we play, you have to offer something.”

 

Baekhyun frowns. “ _Offer_ something?”

 

“Yeah. You offer something, I offer something. Whoever wins gets both things.” Yixing smiles winningly. 

 

“You mean… _gambling?_ ” Baekhyun asks incredulously. “We don’t gamble in Q-16. It’s against the rules. Everyone shares everything.”

 

Yixing’s grin doesn’t waver. “No one’s looking, are they?”

 

“What would I...wager?” Baekhyun asks. “What would _you_ wager?” 

 

“Hmmmm.” Yixing taps his chin. “We used to use smooth stones to gamble with. Or marbles. Do you have anything like that?”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head slowly. 

 

“Huh. You’re making this difficult for me.” Yixing frowns for a few moments, then brightens. “Ah!” Out of his shirt, he pulls a string of what look like polished black and grey beads. He unclasps it carefully, then yanks the two ends apart so that the string snaps, allowing a shower of beads to fall to the blanket. “This is mine and Joonmyun’s Partners Necklace,” he says with a chuckle. 

 

“Won’t he be...mad you broke it?” Baekhyun asks, eyes wide. 

 

“No,” Yixing says simply. “Here, divide the beads up between us.”

 

There are sixty beads total, giving them thirty each to start off with. Yixing puts two of his beads in the center after he deals them each five cards, and so Baekhyun puts in two as well. Then they start playing. 

 

Baekhyun is...honestly terrible. He constantly forgets the rules and has to ask Yixing to repeat them, thus giving himself away. And Yixing is surprisingly ruthless when it comes to gambling. He doesn’t make fun of Baekhyun, but he doesn’t take it easy on him, either. He plays to win, and he does. Within half an hour, Yixing has fifty-four beads, and Baekhyun has six. 

 

“Should we just give me this round and start fresh, thirty-thirty?” he asks, peeking at his cards and then at their current wagers. 

 

Baekhyun growls, glares at his shaking hand of cards. “No,” he says resolutely. “I’ll play to the end.”

 

He loses magnificently, and lets loose a colourful stream of curses. Yixing laughs and gathers the cards Baekhyun threw to the floor in a fit of rage, then divides their beads up again. They start another round without question. 

 

This time, Baekhyun does slightly better. It lasts a full hour and a half before he loses all his beads and throws his cards again, accusing Yixing of cheating. He was sure he remembered all the rules these last few hands, but Yixing still manages to beat him easily. “You just have more practice,” he argues, shuffling the deck clumsily. “I’ll win this time.”

 

“Sure,” Yixing says with a smile. “I believe you.”

 

At lunch, they place their trays on the side table and on the bed next to them and keep playing, and Jongdae walks in to see Baekhyun crankily smoothing out a card he crumpled in his fist. “Jongdae,” he says. “Sit down. Ever gambled before?”

 

Jongdae raises his eyebrows at him. “You look chipper today.”

 

“No time for your...sass. You have a game to learn. I need to be better than someone.”

 

Jongdae learns the rules in five minutes, and beats Baekhyun during his first hand, grinning. 

 

“I thought you said you...never played before!” Baekhyun protests. 

 

“I haven’t. But we played a similar card game in Q-17,” Jongdae says, smirking. 

 

“I hate you,” Baekhyun says, and deals the cards again. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Joonmyun steps into the room, looking pallid and tired. “What are you doing?”

 

“Gambling,” Yixing says with a smile. 

 

“Is that our Partners Necklace?” Joonmyun asks, squinting at the beads on the bed. 

 

“Yes,” is Yixing’s simple reply. 

 

Joonmyun rolls his eyes and sighs. “Alright,” he says, and starts to unclasp his own. “Where’s another chair? I think Yixing cheats, I’ll keep him in line.”

 

“I knew it,” Baekhyun grouses. 

 

“I don’t cheat,” Yixing sniffs. “I’m just a very good bluffer.”

 

“He’s got that kind of face,” Joonmyun agrees. 

 

“Are we just gonna stand around or are we gonna play?” Jongdae asks, gesturing with his cards. “I have to go back to work in a bit.”

 

They play hand after hand, round after round, until Jongdae has to leave, and Joonmyun goes back to the other room to rest some more. Baekhyun has good rounds and bad rounds—Yixing was right, it’s mostly about luck, and just a little strategy when you’re playing with amateurs. He never wins an entire round, though. He refuses to give up until he has. 

 

“We can keep playing,” Yixing says, watching Joonmyun through the doorway as he lies down in his bed. “I can stand to win a few more times.”

 

“That’s what you think,” Baekhyun says, counting out beads again. 

 

They play three rounds in quick succession; Yixing wins them all with minimal effort. Baekhyun throws more cards, because Yixing always has to get up to retrieve them. He also throws a couple beads, and Yixing says that means he starts out with less, now. Which puts him at an automatic disadvantage. Baekhyun starts to give up hope of _ever_ winning this fucking game. 

 

And then, suddenly, during their fourth round, everything just kind of...clicks. Baekhyun wins hand after hand, high on victory, and Yixing watches in silent astonishment as he loses his beads rapidly. Yixing starts insisting on dealing the cards himself, but Baekhyun continues his winning streak. Yixing doesn’t win a single hand that entire round. 

 

“What the hell?” Yixing says, staring at his cards and then Baekhyun’s pile of beads. 

 

Baekhyun grins, preening. 

 

“How did you do that?” Yixing asks seriously. “At first I thought it was luck, but that’s impossible.”

 

“It was easy,” Baekhyun laughs. “I figured it out. I just have to...pay attention to which cards we’ve already put down. That way I know which ones are still in the deck.”

 

Yixing gapes at him. “You… _remember_ that?”

 

“What?” 

 

“How do you remember that?” Yixing shakes his head in disbelief. “Baekhyun, that’s...that’s incredible.”

 

Baekhyun blinks. “I...I remembered. I just remembered.”

 

“That’s amazing,” Yixing breathes. 

 

A grin breaks out across Baekhyun’s face, threatening to split it in half. “I remembered!” he says, too loudly. “Yixing, I remembered! I just...I just remembered! I saw it and it stayed there!”

 

Yixing beams back, holding out his hand for Baekhyun to slap it weakly. “That’s great, Baek! That’s really great. I’m so happy for you.” And he looks it. 

 

Baekhyun feels himself tearing up, and he wipes it away with a laugh. “I remembered,” he says, sniffling. “I just looked and I didn’t forget.” 

 

Yixing gets up on his knees and leans in to loop an arm around Baekhyun’s shoulders, and Baekhyun’s beads roll wildly as Yixing’s knee upsets them but he doesn’t care. Yixing’s hug is gentle, but warm. “I’m proud of you,” he says, and it sounds like he means it. 

 

“Thank you,” Baekhyun says, and he can’t stop laughing, or crying. 

 

He doesn’t remember _everything_. Not even close. None of his old memories are back, or at least nothing life-changing or significant. But he absorbed information and retained it. A _lot_ of information, _detailed_ information. It’s a start. 

 

 

 

 

The next day, Yixing walks into Baekhyun’s room in the morning with a smile and says, “Things are going to fucking suck today, Baekhyun.”

 

Joonmyun gapes at him, Liyin looks somewhat affronted, and Baekhyun just laughs. 

 

He starts the day off laughing. That means more to him than any false optimism ever would.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s strange to think that one can have good weeks and bad weeks while one is literally a prisoner of war with the same schedule, day in and day out. But it’s true. Chanyeol has good and bad weeks, and days, and hours. But then, he figures it’s inevitable that his mental state is a little out of whack. It’s really no wonder that he has trouble maintaining an equilibrium. 

 

“So it’s been a bad week,” he tells his row of tools as he eats the solitary lunch Seulgi brought him when she started her shift. “That was bound to happen, right? I even had bad weeks back home, when things were good. Or, well, better. That’s just human nature, right? Possibly? Man, I should have paid more attention in classes when I was younger. It was just hard, you know? Paying attention. So many things to think about, so many things to do. Book learning was just so hard for me. I just wanted to _do_ things. Of course, we didn’t have that many people available to spend time teaching me separately from the others. So I just got the same education as everyone, only I learned less because if I couldn’t pay attention I just had to leave the room so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. Which, I mean, that was okay. I learned things on my own. I’m a Fixer, and I learned how to fix things, so that’s all that really matters. I just didn’t learn all the book stuff that everyone else learned.” He pauses. “How did I get on this topic? I started out talking about something else.”

 

No one answers him, obviously, so he finishes eating his lunch and then picks up the fresh cloth Seulgi brought with the tray. He smiles, tries to keep it in place as he unwraps the bandage around his other hand. The cloth is stuck to the wound over the forming scab, and he breathes quick and hard as he peels it off, gritting his teeth when he’s forced to take a break. “Okay, Chanyeol, you can do it. Okay. Just a little more. You don’t need water, don’t waste your water.” 

 

The bandage comes away slowly, painfully, and reveals a red slash across his palm. The skin on either side is tight and inflamed, and the blood that oozes out where his scab was pulled up no longer runs pure red. Chanyeol groans, a sweat breaking out across his forehead. 

 

“It’s alright, bud, you’re okay,” he tells himself, trying his best to sound upbeat. “Nothing that can’t heal up on its own. Let’s get that cleaned up, okay?” He does his best to dab the wound clean with the still-white parts of his old bandage, pressing gingerly at the puffy skin around it until it’s just blood that’s seeping out. Then he rinses it with the water left in the flask he was given and wraps it up again, biting his lip hard so he doesn’t make a sound. When he’s done, he slumps against the Machine and breathes slow and steady. 

 

“See?” he says to himself, smiling weakly, eyes closed. “That wasn’t so bad, champ.”

 

He only sits for a little while, resting, breathing. Then he drags himself upright using his good hand, slips his crutch under his arm. It’s been hard the past few days, trying to work around a still-healing leg injury and a fresh wound on his hand, and even harder since the infection set in. But he’s doing his best. He’s not giving up. He knows X-22 will only keep him around as long as he’s being useful. So he keeps going. 

 

He’s on a Parts Hunt today, searching for spare parts that will fit the places where Chanyeol had to remove broken parts or where they were already missing. There’s a belt in the engine that snapped and needs replacing for it to work, there’s an axle that rusted through, a ball and socket joint that’s missing its socket. He’s down to the bare bones of the Machine now, with all the metal siding removed and all the electronics torn out, leaving just the skeleton and all the necessary parts to run. The only piece of tech he left intact is the hypercapacitor hooked up to the engine; if that turns out to be impossible to charge, he’ll have to find another way to power it, but he has hope that he can reconnect all the frayed wiring and hook it up to an energy source. 

 

Slowly, slowly, he’s coming to a vague understanding of the Machine. He becomes familiar with the tooth-like blades on the underside, deadly and hungry for soft flesh to tear into. They’re designed to reach out, grab, and pull in. There’s a tank, too, with pipes leading out of it, to a thin tube along the back side of the Machine. Chanyeol can only assume it would be filled with something noxious; poisonous fumes to kill whatever wasn’t destroyed by the blades. There are other contraptions, too, that Chanyeol doesn’t understand, doesn’t have all the parts to or just can’t figure out. But it’s a fearsome machine all the same. Chanyeol is scared of what it will do when he has it running. 

 

He finds a suitable belt for the engine after an hour of searching and resting on and off, and then an axle that will do the job once he figures out how to shorten it. He hunts for that socket for as long as his leg allows, and then he has to sit down, work on some blueprint sketches, strip some wires. He’s tired and nauseous today, a little woozy from the fever that resulted from his infection. It’s not serious yet, but he’d like for it to never get that far. Everything hurts, everything exhausts him. 

 

Finally, finally, Kyungsoo comes in to start his shift, but even that hardly excites Chanyeol anymore. Not this week. 

 

“Hello,” Kyungsoo says, carrying Chanyeol’s supper on a tray. Even Chanyeol is starting to call it _supper_ now. “How are you today?” His tone is careful, hesitant, distant. Chanyeol can barely listen to it. 

 

“Fine,” Chanyeol says, tucking his bad hand between his knees so Kyungsoo doesn’t think to check on it. Not that he has, really, since he first injured it. 

 

“Alright. Need help with anything?” Kyungsoo settles the tray on his lap, fiddles with the arrangement of his utensils for a moment, loosens the cap on the flask of water. A surprisingly thoughtful gesture. 

 

“No,” Chanyeol says. 

 

“Okay. Eat up.” And then he exits to stand outside, just like Seulgi and Joohyun do during their shifts. 

 

He doesn’t really talk to Chanyeol anymore. Sometimes he speaks to him through the barred door, but not much. He doesn’t sit inside and watch Chanyeol work or tinker like he used to. He still interacts with Chanyeol more than his other guards do—he asks occasionally if Chanyeol needs help with anything, he offers to retrieve things for him when he sees Chanyeol struggling with his mobility, he requests more water and clean clothes and things like that for Chanyeol when he notices that he needs them. But he’s been so distant. He doesn’t seem to realize what Chanyeol _really_ needs. 

 

It’s so weird, so confusing, because he was...so sweet, that day Chanyeol got hurt. He had rushed in, eyes wild, and tended to the wound with gentle hands. He had been worried about Chanyeol—he had been affected by Chanyeol’s pain. The look on his face had stolen Chanyeol’s breath away. 

 

But since then, he’s been so quiet. So aloof, almost cold. Not spending more time in Chanyeol’s workshop than he has to. Not talking to him more than a few words every hour. He looks in at Chanyeol sometimes, eyes sad and concerned, which Chanyeol only ever sees because he’s constantly looking out at _him_. But he never comes in. 

 

It’s confusing, and it _hurts_. It hurts so much. But Chanyeol doesn’t say anything. He can’t. What’s he going to say? Come back? I thought you cared about me? 

 

Now isn’t the time to be pathetic. He’s just having a bad few days. A bad week. Things will straighten out...soon. They’ll get better. Chanyeol believes it, because if they don’t, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. They _need_ to get better. 

 

So he keeps working, keeps fighting to keep a smile on his face, his voice light when he answers Kyungsoo’s brief questions. He talks to himself, he laughs at his mistakes, he hums songs he remembers from his youth. 

 

“ _Youth_ ,” he chuckles to himself, dragging himself upright after he finishes his meal. “Am I old now? Twenty-four is the new middle-age? Well, maybe… What’s the life expectancy aboveground? I could easily die at fifty… Well, I could also die at twenty-five. Hmm. Hmm hmm hmm. What’s middle-aged when you have no idea when you’ll die?” He sighs, stretches his arms. “Sorry. Don’t let me go all philosophical on you. I don’t know when to shut up.” 

 

No one responds. Of course. No one ever responds to Chanyeol anymore. 

 

He pastes a smile on his face—hoping for a physiological reaction to his own happy expression. “Alright! Back to work, my friend!”

 

***

 

The thing about doing undercover recon work for over a month is that after a while, everything becomes really...normal.

 

Like, Luhan knows why he’s here, in X-22. He does. He’s here to find out everything he can about their prisoners of war—which Minseok has told him are still alive, so he’s hopeful about that—and then bring the information back to Yifan so they can do something about it. He’s here to do what he can to save his friend. 

 

It’s just that, well, he’s been here so long. And he can’t tell anyone, obviously, the real reason why he’s here. And so he just has to pretend he lives here now. And after a month of pretending he lives here...it starts to feel so real to him. 

 

It’s just the same thing, day after day. He wakes up, he eats, he works, he talks to Minseok. He goes for midday meal—lunch—and he works some more. Minseok finds him at evening meal—supper—and they chat. He helps Minseok babysit his little sister or is given a different job during the evening. He goes to bed. Then he does it again. And again. That’s his life now. 

 

It starts to _feel_ like his life. Sometimes, he forgets why he’s trying to get closer to Minseok, the reason why he’s constantly searching for a way out of the community unseen. He forgets that he has a hidden purpose here. Sometimes, he spends an entire evening talking to Minseok, just talking, and at the end he realizes he forgot to even approach the topic of war and captives. 

 

It’s not that he’s a full-blown member of X-22 now. People are still wary of him. They don’t really talk to him, and they’re still always looking out for him, making sure he’s following rules, making sure he’s fitting in. It gets annoying, but at the same time, he gets used to it. It just becomes another part of his...really weird life. 

 

But that’s not all the time, he assures himself. That’s just sometimes. Most of the time, he knows what he’s doing here, he’s making an active effort to subtly convince Minseok that his interest in their prisoners of war is purely innocent curiosity. Minseok doesn’t really question it, but Luhan still worries that he’s suspicious, that he’ll stop offering information if Luhan pries too much about what the guard system is like, and about the night guard, and whether people ever go out at night, and so on and so forth. It hasn’t happened yet, not to any serious extent, but Luhan worries. Minseok is trusting, but for how long?

 

“Hey, Rogue.” A sudden voice breaks through his thoughts. “Done daydreaming?”

 

“Hmm?” Luhan turns away from where he’s helping the other Builders hold up a reconstructed wall while others secure it in place. Or at least, they were a second ago. Now he seems to be...holding up a secured wall on his own. “Oh.”

 

One of the other Builders—Changmin, the same guy that’s usually keeping Luhan occupied when Minseok’s not around to—snorts and flicks the side of his head. “It’s supper. Let’s go eat.”

 

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Luhan smiles a little, stretches out his sore arms. It’d been a long, hard day, and his lips are dry and cracking from being outside in the sun. He licks at them compulsively.

 

“It’s a good workout, right?” Changmin says as they trudge back toward the community center. “Bet you’ve gained some muscle mass since joining us here.”

 

Luhan scoffs, then abruptly remembers he can’t exactly say that he’s been a Builder for much longer than he’s been with X-22. “I was already muscular,” he says instead, smirking a little.

 

“Sure,” says Changmin, reaching out to squeeze his bicep teasingly. Luhan jerks away with a whine—his muscles are always sore after work. 

 

“We used to all compare arms, when we first resurfaced,” Changmin says, grinning as he runs a hand through sweaty hair. This is new—people talking to Luhan like he could be a _friend_. He’s not sure how to feel about it. “Since we didn’t really do any heavy lifting in the bunker, unless we worked out, we had to bulk up really quick in order to do this work.”

 

“Did you win?” Luhan asks, eyeing Changmin appraisingly. He’s definitely one of the more well-built guys on the team, and in the community as a whole. 

 

They grab their supper trays and slump into adjacent seats at a table, digging into their food hungrily. “I definitely didn’t lose,” Changmin says with a chuckle. “Minseok could still beat me in an arm wrestle for a long time, though. I think he does pushups at night.”

 

“He doesn’t,” Luhan says immediately. “Unless he does it while I’m asleep, which, honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me. That guy is seriously strong.”

 

“Ah, right, I forgot you’d know,” Changmin says, nodding slightly. “Being his unit brother and all. Or, potentially…?”

 

“Potentially?” Luhan shoves scalding hot sweet potato into his mouth, puffing out steam. 

 

“Well, I’m just saying.” Changmin’s eyebrows lift. “You seem to be well-acquainted with his...strength.”

 

“Yeah,” Luhan says, eyes watering as the food in his mouth burns his tongue. “He always has his shirt off.”

 

Changmin snorts. “I bet.”

 

Luhan finally swallows, wincing as his food burns all the way down his throat. “Speaking of Minseok,” he says, lowering his voice. “Do you know anything about his other job?”

 

“What?”

 

Luhan ducks his head conspiratorially. “You know, he always leaves in the afternoon for his _other job_. What do you know about it?”

 

Changmin frowns. “Well, not a lot…”

 

Luhan groans in disappointment. Although he’s often too busy with his own work to worry about where Minseok goes during the day, he’s really starting to wonder. Minseok always blows off Luhan’s questions when he asks, distracting him with other topics, and at first he just figured it wasn’t important, but now he’s growing suspicious. What is he trying to hide? 

 

“Can you tell me anything?” Luhan asks, poking at the eggplant on his tray. 

 

“Well, I mean, he’s—”

 

“Luhan! There you are.” Minseok materializes out of nowhere, looping an arm around Luhan’s neck in a half-hug, half-headlock. “Come on, come sit by me. There’s no room at this table.”

 

“It’s fine, we weren’t talking,” Changmin says with a snicker. 

 

“Get your own,” Minseok says, tugging on Luhan’s arm until he stumbles out of his seat and picks up his tray obediently. He grins at Luhan. “This one’s mine.”

 

Luhan feels himself go red, flustered in a way that is _completely_ inappropriate. He should not be flustered. It is absolutely not acceptable. He opens his mouth to say something, to snark back, but nothing comes out. 

 

“He’s yours alright,” Changmin says, eyebrows raised. “Just a second ago he was talking about how you—”

 

“Let’s go sit,” Luhan says loudly, nudging Minseok away. God, his face is so warm. “Do you have your food yet? Go get your tray, I’ll find us seats.”

 

Minseok smiles at him with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Thanks, Lu,” he says, nudging him back. “Join you in a sec.”

 

Luhan hurries away to find an emptier table, where he sets down his tray and bends his face over his food. They were just joking around. He knows they were just joking. So why is his heart beating so fast? 

 

He jumps when Minseok drops his tray across from him and slides into his seat. “Hey,” he says, casual as can be, not affected in the least. “How was your day?”

 

“O-oh, it was fine,” Luhan says, focusing on blowing on his food. Not that it’s that hot anymore. 

 

Minseok hums. “What were you saying about me to Changmin?” he asks after a moment. When Luhan jerks to look up at him, he’s resting his chin in his hand, smirking. 

 

“N-nothing,” Luhan says, cursing his stutter. “It was nothing.”

 

“Oh?” Minseok’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

 

“Yeah, it was nothing.” Then, of course, Luhan sees his opportunity. “I was just asking him if he knew what your other job is.”

 

Minseok looks briefly surprised, and then he pouts. “Spying on me, Lu?”

 

“That’s not it!” Luhan rushes to say. “I was just wondering, because you’re always gone—”

 

“You asked him before you asked me? I’m hurt. I thought we were close.” The pout grows. 

 

“I did ask you,” Luhan mumbles, looking away. “You always just say it’s nothing, or whatever.”

 

“It _is_ nothing.” Minseok smiles, shovels food into his mouth. He watches Luhan for a few long, silent moments as he chews, until Luhan is fidgeting under his gaze. Then he swallows and leans forward. “Actually, Lu, I’ll tell you this because we’re...close.”

 

“What?” Luhan blinks in surprise. “Tell me what?”

 

“It’s a secret.” Minseok grins, beckons Luhan forward. “You can’t tell anyone.”

 

“What is?”

 

“My other job.” Minseok waits until Luhan leans in close, his voice soft and his breath warm on Luhan’s face. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, so don’t ask people about me, alright? They’ll get suspicious, too.” He smiles. “But I’ll tell you. You’re in my family unit, anyway. We’re in this together. Right?”

 

“Right,” Luhan breathes, watching him closely. 

 

Minseok props his chin on his hand again. “Boa chose me out of the Builders to work on a new security system for the community. We’re trying to strengthen our safety measures.”

 

Luhan’s eyes widen. “Like what?”

 

“Oh, this and that. I probably shouldn’t go into detail. I’d get in huge trouble.” He sticks out his tongue a little. Too close to Luhan’s face. “But she said they might start installing new security on buildings soon. You know, the ones that need it.”

 

Luhan’s heart beats fast and loud—he hopes desperately that Minseok can’t hear it. If there’s one building they’ll be using security systems on, it’s the place where they keep their prisoners. “Wow,” he says, when it becomes obvious that Minseok is waiting for a response. “That’s—that’s really cool. I’d love to, um, hear about it sometime.”

 

“Hmm, it’s supposed to be a secret.” Minseok grins impishly, leaning back, eyes sparkling. 

 

“Oh, right.” Luhan swallows hard. “But, I mean, we’re in this together.”

 

Minseok laughs. “That’s true,” he says. Then he point to Luhan’s tray. “You gonna eat that? It’s getting cold.”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Luhan shoves more food in his mouth, chews it quietly. 

 

“So what do you want to do tonight? I only have to watch Yejoo for a little bit, and then we can beg off work. You’ve worked hard since you got here.” Minseok nudges Luhan’s foot under the table, smiles wide. “I’m all yours tonight.”

 

Luhan drains his water in one go, and absolutely does not blush. There will be no blushing. Because that would be very, _very_ bad. And he has more important things to think about. 

 

He definitely should not be thinking about...blushing.

 

***

 

“Your conjurer partner _really_ likes his new unit brother, doesn’t he.” Sehun is staring over Jongin’s shoulder across the table, and Jongin turns to see Minseok grinning and stealing something off Luhan’s plate as the latter smiles uncomfortably back, cheeks pink. “He doesn’t even try to be subtle.”

 

Jongin smiles a little, turning back to his plate. “I think he’s just trying to get a reaction,” he says with a shrug. “He does that a lot.”

 

Sehun stares at Jongin quietly, having already finished his meal. “He’s not still being mean to you, is he?”

 

Jongin winces. He may have overshared a bit about that aspect of his life. “Not...so much. He just doesn’t like it when I’m so passive. Apparently we don’t work well together when I’m like that. So he bothers me sometimes. But he’s not so mean. He just, uh. Has questionable methods.”

 

Sehun glares over Jongin’s shoulder, which is...sweet of him. “You tell me if he’s ever mean to you. I’ll get Kyungsoo to beat him up.”

 

Jongin snorts. “You think Kyungsoo could beat up Minseok? Minseok’s a Builder.”

 

“Kyungsoo’s a soldier, though!” Sehun objects. “He has a blaster.”

 

“That’s not beating someone up, that’s shooting them. Please don’t tell your brother to shoot my—” Jongin hesitates. “Partner.”

 

Sehun huffs. “Well, fine.”

 

It’s been three weeks since Sehun started hanging around with Jongin, and he has to admit, it’s been...nice. It’s been nice, having someone to sit with at meals, and someone to spend time with in the evenings. Sehun awkwardly asks him about his day, encourages Jongin to share things about himself. He asks questions, and he offers information about himself. It’s not smooth—none of it is smooth—Sehun looks embarrassed constantly and fumbles with his words and Jongin feels confused and lost—but it’s nice. They spend time together. They...look out for each other. 

 

He still worries, sometimes, that Sehun has ulterior motives. No one’s ever shown so much interest in Jongin or sorcery before, and it makes Jongin wary. He doesn’t quite understand what Sehun wants from him, what he expects Jongin to do. But over the past three weeks, Jongin has become so familiar with Sehun’s...wavelengths, for lack of a better word. So familiar with the energy that manifests inside him. And it’s true that Jongin often senses a note of something sour in the other boy—sour like unripe fruit, not like spoiling food. Abnormalities in Sehun’s energy frequencies. 

 

At first, he’d worried that it was suspicion, or fear, or contempt. But by now, he’s felt other things in Sehun, things closer to those emotions. They don’t present themselves in the same way. They’re colder in Sehun, darker, more bitter. This sour feeling, it’s something else. Nervousness. Uncertainty. Jongin doesn’t really know, isn’t nearly practiced enough to be able to tell. That takes years, decades. But he thinks maybe it’s something more like anxiety. Fear of rejection. 

 

Sehun lost his parents, too, Jongin has to remind himself. He gained new parents, a new brother, but he understands loss, like Jongin does. He understands feeling out of place. 

 

Maybe he, like Jongin, is scared of his hand being slapped away, just when he’s finally mustered the courage to extend it. 

 

So he swallows his own silly anxieties and says, “Do you want to see my house?”

 

Sehun jumps in surprise, then turns wide eyes onto Jongin. “What?”

 

Jongin smiles slightly, chewing on his lip. “I was just wondering if you wanted to see it. Since I’ve seen yours. It’s nothing special.”

 

A slow smile steals across Sehun’s face. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

 

They make the trek out to Jongin’s home, right at the northern edge of the community’s residential area, and Jongin lets them into his small, decrepit house. Last week, some of the Builders came by to fix the door so it would close properly again, but other than that, it’s still falling apart just as much as usual. He feels embarrassed about it, suddenly, even though he knows it’s not his fault. 

 

“Roomy,” Sehun says with a small smile, looking around the single usable room. “Private. Uh...nice sky light?”

 

Jongin laughs softly. “Creative,” he says. “Not everyone can think of ways to compliment my humble abode.”

 

“It’ll be hard to winterize,” Sehun concedes, nodding towards the collapsing ceiling. “Are the Builders going to get here in time?”

 

Jongin shrugs. “Well. I hope so.”

 

“I mean, they haven’t gotten to our house yet, either, but they’re going to have to, right? We can’t all be living in houses that are barely standing when it gets cold out.” 

 

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll...maybe they’ll have kicked me out by then.” Jongin swallows hard, suddenly queasy. “I mean, I won’t be of much use in the winter, right? Plants can’t grow then.”

 

“Nah, they won’t do that,” Sehun assures him quickly. “And if they don’t get to your house in time, you can live with me and Kyungsoo, alright? He won’t mind.” His face goes pink, and his eyes flick to the north-facing window, which is missing the majority of its panes of glass. 

 

Jongin follows his gaze—he can mostly just see fields through it, the odd uninhabited house. There’s a big building out that way, too, maybe a hundred meters away. There has been dark, painful energy coming out of that building for a long time now, with varying degrees of intensity. It’s been worrying Jongin for a while, but he’s never dared to pry, scared it’ll just make the community hate him more. Now, though, with his focus suddenly on it again, he frowns. The waves of negative energy coming off the building have been getting increasingly strong over the past few days, and it’s getting hard to ignore. 

 

“Jongin? Did you hear me?” Sehun takes a step toward him. “What are you looking at?”

 

Jongin chews on his lip. “Why did you look out this window, before? When you mentioned Kyungsoo.”

 

“What? Oh, no reason.” Sehun’s energy sours a little again. And that wasn’t denial. 

 

“Is that where he is?” Jongin asks, suddenly concerned. He likes Kyungsoo, even though they haven’t spent a lot of time together. Sehun talks about him a lot, and he’s never been anything but kind to Jongin. “Is he by that big building out there?”

 

Sehun fidgets. “I don’t know,” he says. “He’s working.”

 

Jongin doesn’t know if it’s a lie, would never be able to tell by the feeling of Sehun’s wavelengths alone, but it certainly doesn’t feel like the whole truth. “There’s bad stuff coming from over there,” he tells Sehun. “Is Kyungsoo safe?”

 

“What do you mean? Of course he’s safe. What are you talking about, Jongin?”

 

Jongin shakes his head. “That building. It feels bad. Really bad.”

 

“What do you mean it _feels_ bad? Is this some kind of paranormal thing?”

 

“Yeah.” Jongin frowns, still staring at the building, concentrating, feeling. “It feels hot, and dark, and painful.”

 

“What does that mean?” Suddenly Sehun sounds scared, too; it feels cold and spoiled-food sour. 

 

“I don’t know. It could mean lots of things. But it’s not good.”

 

Sehun is silent for a moment, and then he says, “It’s probably nothing, Jongin. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure someone is taking care of it.”

 

Jongin chews on the inside of his cheek, glancing at Sehun. “Maybe we should go check it out?”

 

“No!” Sehun says, a little too quickly. “No, let’s not. That sounds...scary.”

 

Jongin hesitates, then shrugs. “Okay.” He sits down on top of his bed mat. 

 

Sehun seems to deflate with relief (a spike of warmth, just a tiny bit sweet). He sits down on Jongin’s bed, too. “What do you think winter will be like?” he asks, after a few moments of tense silence. 

 

Jongin hums vaguely. “Cold? That’s all I know.”

 

“Yeah. I don’t think we really understand _how_ cold, though. You know? I mean, it gets pretty cold at night and when it rains and stuff, but we’ve never been that cold before. I was so surprised when it first started getting really hot aboveground. It was unbearable at first. Was it like that for you, too?”

 

Jongin nods. It had been spring when Delta first resurfaced, chilly at night and warm during the day. That had taken a while to get used to—temperature had been regulated in the bunker, although increasingly unreliably in later years. But when summer had started and the temperatures became scorching during the day, everyone had been pretty shocked. It was just _so hot._ Sticky and exhausting and painful. Their skin had blistered and peeled. It was horrifying. 

 

But then their skin had darkened, and they’d learned to keep themselves hydrated and to rest when they could. They had adapted, after some time. 

 

“It’ll probably be even worse with the cold,” Sehun says thoughtfully. “I’m worried.”

 

“Me too,” Jongin admits. There are a lot of winter-related things he’s worried about. 

 

“Kyungsoo is worried about how we’ll heat so many homes,” Sehun says, but suddenly, Jongin is barely listening. He’s looking out the window again, at the big building, from which a spike of negative energy just made Jongin lose his breath for a moment. “We have fuel from the bunker still, but we could only bring the smaller tanks, and there’s solar cells— Jongin? What’s wrong?”

 

“Someone’s in pain, Sehun,” Jongin says, eyes glued to the building. “Either someone’s in pain, or they’re so angry that _someone’s_ going to get seriously hurt.”

 

Sehun’s eyes widen. “Jongin—”

 

“I’m going to go look,” Jongin says decisively, unable to just sit there and suffer through the pain with whoever—or whatever—is in there. He can’t. He stands up. 

 

“Jongin, wait!” Sehun’s hand darts out, wraps around Jongin’s wrist. “You can’t go over there, it’s—”

 

“What? Sehun, what do you know about that place?” Jongin winces at another spike of energy. If he can feel it all the way over here, it must be bad. 

 

“Nothing, it’s nothing, Jongin—”

 

“It’s not nothing.” Jongin sets his jaw. “I have to go look.” He pulls toward the door, and Sehun stands up and stumbles after him, his grip tight around Jongin’s hand. 

 

“You’re not allowed, Jongin, you can’t just—”

 

“I came here to _help_ people, Sehun,” Jongin says, wrenching his arm out of Sehun’s grasp. “Not to just sit around while someone suffers. I’m going.”

 

Sehun gapes at him, breathing hard, and says, “I really don’t think—”

 

But Jongin is already leaving, striding through the door with purpose, determined and just a little bit scared. 

 

Okay, maybe very scared. 

 

Sehun trots after him, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly as he tries, messily, to convince Jongin not to go. His reasoning is patchy at best, panicked, and it just makes Jongin more concerned. What could possibly be going on back there? Why does so much pain radiate from that building? The closer he gets, the more intense it is. 

 

There’s no door on the wall facing the community, just high windows near the top of the wall. Jongin jogs around the side, pulling Sehun along behind him, whose voice softens with every step until he’s whispering furiously. Jongin isn’t even listening. 

 

He rounds the corner to the back of the building, and sees Kyungsoo leaning against the wall next to the door. Of course. He thought he sensed a familiar energy as he got closer, but it was muted under the darkness of everything else. “Kyungsoo?” he says, blood rushing in his ears as he fights to keep the negative energy out of his system. 

 

Kyungsoo’s gaze snaps to him, surprised. “Jongin? What are you doing here, you’re not supposed to— Sehun?”

 

Sehun slinks out from where he was hiding behind Jongin. “I tried to stop him!” he insists immediately. “I didn’t bring him here, I swear, he just—”

 

“What’s going on in there, Kyungsoo?” Jongin interrupts to ask, voice shaking. “Why is it so bad?”

 

“What?”

 

“It _hurts_ ,” Jongin says. His eyes start to water in automatic reaction—how can he not feel sympathy for whoever is hurting so badly? “Why is it so bad?”

 

“Jongin—”

 

Jongin takes a step forward, then another. Kyungsoo turns to face him fully, hand on his blaster. Jongin feels scared, but at the same time, he doesn’t back down. He needs to know. It’s in his blood, to help, to heal. He has to know. 

 

“Jongin, you’re not allowed to be here,” Kyungsoo says carefully. “I’m not allowed to _let_ you be here.”

 

“I can’t just ignore it,” Jongin says, shaking his head. “Don’t you understand? It hurts me, too. I can’t just leave.”

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo warns, but he doesn’t move to draw his blaster as Jongin walks right past him, to the door. 

 

He looks in, squints through the gloom. He sees a face staring back, haggard, surprised, exhausted. His body radiates with pain. “Who are you?” Jongin gasps, fingers curling around the bars that separate them. 

 

The man blinks back, leaning heavily against a crutch. “Chanyeol,” he says softly. 

 

“What are you doing in there?” Jongin fights hard not to cry, but it’s not easy. There’s so much pain. So much agony. “What are they doing to you?”

 

Chanyeol doesn’t answer. 

 

Jongin turns away from the door, towards Kyungsoo. “Let me in,” he says. It’s not a request.

 

“Jongin, I can’t just—”

 

“Let. Me. In.” Jongin can’t stop shaking. “I don’t care who he is. I don’t care...what he’s _done_. He. Is. _Dying._ ” 

 

Kyungsoo gapes at him. Then he fumbles for the key. 

 

The moment the door is open, Jongin goes to him. Chanyeol flinches away, obviously unnerved, but Jongin stops in front of him, looks him up and down. He reaches out tentatively. “Give me your hand,” he says softly. The most pain pulses from there, white hot and intense, a mass of negative energy in a slash across the palm. 

 

The man stares, then does as he’s told, offering his bandaged hand. Jongin can barely stand to touch it, breathing hard as he unwraps the messy bindings. They stick to the wound underneath, but Jongin sees enough. “Are you a prisoner?” he breathes, looking up into a face that’s finally beginning to betray the pain that lurks beneath. 

 

Chanyeol hesitates, then nods. 

 

“Chanyeol!” Kyungsoo’s voice is loud behind Jongin, alarmed. “Oh my god, Chanyeol, that’s—”

 

Jongin rounds on him, suddenly angry. “I thought you were good, Kyungsoo,” he says, swallowing hard. “I thought you were a good person.”

 

Kyungsoo stares at him, and then at Chanyeol, and then back. “I’m not— I’m just a guard, Jongin. I’m just doing my job.”

 

“Look at him, Kyungsoo. Don’t you see how much he’s hurting?” He has to blink back hot tears again. “I didn’t even know that X-22 was keeping prisoners, but to _neglect_ them like this?”

 

“Chanyeol, fuck, that’s so infected,” Kyungsoo says, shaking his head as he steps around Jongin. He reaches for Chanyeol’s hand, who pulls it away with a hiss. Kyungsoo’s eyes grow wider still. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Chanyeol remains silent, looking away. 

 

“It’s not just the hand, Kyungsoo,” Jongin says, swallowing hard. “The hand is bad—it’s really bad. And the leg.” Dull pain radiates from his left leg—a healing bone. Jongin can feel the precise pulses of pain from the injury. “But the—the _mind_.” Jongin looks up at Chanyeol, his chest heavy. “Don’t you understand what you’re doing to him? How can you keep him away like this, contain him like this? Don’t you see how it’s killing him?” The force of Chanyeol’s loneliness, his longing, threatens to swallow Jongin up. It lies in stark juxtaposition to his physical pain—it’s so cold, so heavy, so dark. It scares Jongin, who feels it like a physical presence, like a demon under Chanyeol’s skin. But every instinct screams at him to help, to heal. To chase the demon away. 

 

For a moment, Jongin feels the mass of dark energy fighting against his defenses, trying to rush into him. He feels it like he felt it that day that Q-16 attacked them and took Joonmyun and Yixing. He feels like he could use this power, harness it. 

 

But that’s terrifying. This power is dark, dangerous. Jongin is scared of it. He doesn’t want it. 

 

“Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo whispers, taking a step towards him. 

 

“It’s not—” Chanyeol swallows thickly. “It’s not that bad.”

 

Jongin shakes his head. “I felt it all the way from my house.”

 

“It’s not that bad,” Chanyeol repeats. 

 

Jongin has to take a deep breath, focusing hard. He looks around the room, feeling carefully. “Kyungsoo, what is this place?”

 

Kyungsoo seems surprised by the question. “It’s a—a storehouse. Or, it was.”

 

“It’s a bad place.” Jongin feels himself shivering. “It’s not just Chanyeol that’s pumping out all this bad energy.”

 

“What?”

 

It takes a bit of mental reaching, a bit of probing, but Jongin’s gaze is drawn to the hulking machine behind Chanyeol, halfway torn apart and menacing. “It’s coming from there.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Pain.” Jongin shakes his head. “I don’t know. Bad feelings. They’re...muted. Old, maybe. It’s bad.” He takes a deep breath. “Kyungsoo, what is this place? What are you doing?”

 

“I’m just doing my job,” Kyungsoo says again, and he’s shaking, too. 

 

“I want to heal him,” Jongin says. “I want to make it go away.”

 

“You can’t.” Sehun speaks up suddenly, lingering in the doorway. “You need Minseok for that. No one’s supposed to know, Jongin.”

 

“You can’t tell _anyone_. Jongin, promise me. We’ll both be in trouble if you do,” Kyungsoo says. 

 

“He’s in pain.” Jongin bites his lip. 

 

“I’ll do what I can. Jongin, I promise, I will do everything I can to help him.”

 

Jongin draws a rattling breath. “You kept him here.”

 

“That’s not my choice. But I’ll do what I can.”

 

The pain is becoming too much for Jongin—it’s not that it’s getting stronger, but his defenses are weakening, and Jongin is getting tired, and he’s scared. “Help him,” he says shortly, and then he walks out of the building. 

 

Sehun catches up with him, catching his hand again. “Jongin, I swear, I didn’t know it was that bad. And I couldn’t tell you, I wasn’t allowed, I can only know because Kyungsoo’s my unit brother.” He pauses, tries to catch his breath. “I’m—it was my idea to let him _live_.” 

 

Jongin stops, turns to face Sehun, eyes watering from a combination of overwhelming negative energy and exhaustion and sympathy. “Sehun,” he says seriously. “Right now, I think he’d rather be dead.”

 

***

 

As soon as Jongin and Sehun leave, Kyungsoo turns back to Chanyeol, eyes wide, mouth set. “Chanyeol. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Chanyeol’s throat bobs as he swallows. “What right do I have to complain?” he rasps. 

 

“ _Every_ right!” Kyungsoo says, voice rising against his will. Guilt rolls in his stomach, presses against his ribs. “Chanyeol, you’re a prisoner, but you’re still _human_. What did you think I would do? Punish you for letting your hand get infected? Like you did it on purpose?” 

 

Chanyeol trembles—now that Kyungsoo is looking, it’s impossible to miss the feverish gleam in his eyes. God, he was so stupid. “I’m only alive for as long as I’m useful,” Chanyeol says quietly. 

 

“Do you honestly think I’d let them kill for over an _infection?_ ” Kyungsoo asks, incredulous. 

 

Chanyeol looks away. “You haven’t been speaking to me recently.”

 

His voice is quiet, choked, and Kyungsoo would have to be deaf not to hear the pain behind it. His heart throbs, and he takes a step closer. “Chanyeol,” he breathes. “I was told off for spending too much time in here. Victoria was...concerned. I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

Chanyeol doesn’t look at him, his face turned away, but what Kyungsoo can see of it twists, his eyes squeezing shut. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I didn’t know what would hurt more,” Kyungsoo says. But even as he does, he knows it’s a lie. He hates himself so much, how much of a coward he was, how cruel he’d been. 

 

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says, quiet, desperate. “What could possibly hurt me more than you ignoring me?”

 

Kyungsoo’s voice gets stuck in his throat, and he blinks hard. Jongin’s words ring in his ears. _How can you keep him away like this, contain him like this? Don’t you see how it’s killing him?_ “I’m sorry,” he manages to say. “I didn’t know.”

 

“The injuries are nothing, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says, staring at the wall next to them. “They hurt, but they’ll heal. Do you know what it’s like to be this alone? To have _no one?_ Do you understand how _painful_ it is?”

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t respond, drawing a shuddering breath. 

 

“It’s not just...boredom, or wanting someone to talk to. Do you understand, Kyungsoo? I’m going _crazy_ in here. I need someone so—” His voice cracks. “So badly. It’s a physical pain. It’s _crushing_ me.” He sucks in a deep breath, tremulous on the exhale. “I want to go home.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo whispers. “I’m sorry, Chanyeol.”

 

Chanyeol looks at him at last, eyes red, breath hitching. “I know I can’t do that,” he says, his voice raw. “But at least I had you, before. And then I had nothing.”

 

“I’m scared they’ll take me off guard duty,” Kyungsoo whispers. “They will, if they find out I’m talking to you.”

 

Chanyeol’s eyes shimmer with helpless tears, and it tugs at Kyungsoo’s aching heart. “Then talk to me until that happens,” he says. “And then, god—ask them to kill me.”

 

Kyungsoo wipes roughly at his eyes as they threaten to spill over with tears. “I can’t get you anything for that infection tonight,” he says gruffly, regretfully. “But I’ll bring you something tomorrow, okay? And for god’s sake, sit down. You’ve been standing for ages.”

 

Chanyeol stares at him for a moment, then nods jerkily and limps over to his blanket, lowering himself to stretch out his legs in front of him. 

 

“Chanyeol, I’m really sorry,” Kyungsoo says softly, biting his lip. “This isn’t how I want things to be for you.”

 

“I know,” Chanyeol replies, just as quiet. “But it’s the way things are.”

 

“I don’t want you to think of me as the bad guy,” Kyungsoo sighs. 

 

“Then what do you want me to think of you as?”

 

Kyungsoo thinks about that, but in the end can only shake his head. He’s never felt less at peace with his duty—has never hated himself and his position more—than he does now. Finally, he says, “The guy who doesn’t know what else to do.”

 

Chanyeol lies down across his blanket, closing his eyes as he exhales slowly. It’s silent for a long time, as Kyungsoo regrets and struggles with his options, and then, softly, Chanyeol whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

 

Kyungsoo clenches his jaw, fights not to make a promise he can’t keep. In the end, all he can say is, “I’ll do what I can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hey all! Thank you SO MUCH for the comments you've been leaving. I'm in the middle of exams, so I haven't been able to answer a lot of them (which I hate doing) but I promise I'm reading them and appreciating them greatly. I'll be able to be more actively involved after the 20th! Thank you~ <3
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter here!


	11. Chapter 11

In Q-16, in a chair beside Baekhyun’s bed, Joonmyun sighs deeply. “Can you tell me again where it hurts, exactly?”

 

“Honestly, it’s hard to say when _everything_ kinda hurts,” Baekhyun grouches. “My whole body is a...a...zenith of pain.”

 

“I don’t think that makes sense,” says Jongdae, standing in the background as “moral support,” i.e. making fun of Baekhyun whenever the chance presents itself. Baekhyun appreciates it. 

 

“You’re not allowed to...question a dying man’s grammar.”

 

“ _Zenith_ is like, the highest point. How can your whole body be the highest point of pain?”

 

“ _Your_ whole body will be the highest point of pain once I’m healed enough to kick your ass,” Baekhyun snipes. 

 

Jongdae grins, and Baekhyun grins back. 

 

Joonmyun rolls his eyes. “Ladies, ladies, please.”

 

“Sexism is _so_ last...century, Joonmyun,” Baekhyun sniffs. 

 

“Closer to a century and a half,” Yixing corrects gently, his smile soft. 

 

Joonmyun sighs, sounding like a harried mother. “Are you going to answer my question or not? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me where you’re experiencing pain.”

 

“Can’t you just, you know, _feel_ it?” Baekhyun asks crankily. “You know, sense it with your special powers, and then...knit the bones and...tissue back together with magic?”

 

“That’s not how it works,” Yixing explains, forever patient. “It’s not nearly that tangible.”

 

“I don’t feel pain or energy like they’re a _thing_ ,” Joonmyun says, shaking his arms out. “I can feel that energy _exists_ , and I can feel it flowing through my own body, if I pull it in. I can sense energy when it’s around me. I can tell where it’s coming from in a very...general sense. Like the heat you feel coming from the sun.” He frowns. “I can feel that you’re in pain, that something is wrong. And like, I can feel energy coming from the plant.” He gestures towards Chanyeol’s potted plant on the windowsill. “And there’s energy in people, and I can feel it in the ground. Distant, though. I have to pull it towards me. Exhausting shit.”

 

Baekhyun shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

 

“He knows it hurts, because you’re sending out pain signals all over the place,” Yixing says with a shrug. “But it’s not like pain is a _thing_ he can _feel_. Although it’s different for everyone. Sorcery is not an exact science.” 

 

“How does it feel for you?” Baekhyun asks, flopping back against his pillow. 

 

“Me? I don’t feel anything. Joon just pushes the energy in, and I transform it. Sorcerer—source. Conjurer—conjures.” Yixing smiles, pointing between him and Joonmyun. “Energy is useless in his body. It becomes tangible in mine. We’re a team.”

 

Baekhyun sighs. “This is all very...intriguing, but it’s not helping me heal up any faster.”

 

“That’s because you still haven’t told me where it hurts,” Joonmyun says, unimpressed. “I’m working blindly right now. It’s way more exhausting, _plus_ less effective, to try to push healing energy into your entire body. Specific areas would be useful.”

 

Baekhyun lets out a grumpy _hmph_ , but obediently starts pointing out the places on his body where it’s clear that healing isn’t going as well as it could—his broken finger on his left hand, his fourth rib on his right side, his lungs, which feel heavy and full because he hasn’t been able to cough properly for weeks. Jongdae watches in the background as Yixing takes his hands and the paranormal pair works on sending waves of energy to those places, making them burn and expand. Baekhyun hardly ever cries anymore. 

 

He does, however, tend to cry when Liyin comes in to help him go through his physio stretches, which hurt like a bitch after not using his muscles for weeks, because they’re weak and trembly and sometimes painfully stiff, almost rigid. 

 

“You’re going to have to start walking again eventually, Baekhyun,” she says sternly, helping him to lift and bend his legs. “You can’t just sit in this bed forever. Your broken bones are no longer the main thing keeping you in here.”

 

“No, it’s my shitty muscles now,” Baekhyun snips, grinding his teeth. “Won’t do what I fucking tell them.”

 

“Well, that’s why we’re working on it, isn’t it?” 

 

Baekhyun squeezes his eyes shut and says, “Jongdae, distract me.”

 

“Can do, my friend. You could even say being distracting is my specialty.” Jongdae grins, taking a step closer. 

 

Baekhyun chuckles. “Sounds like Chanyeol.”

 

“Ooo, the legendary Best Friend. I am honoured.” Jongdae makes a pleased sound. “You haven’t forgotten him again.”

 

Baekhyun smiles a little, simultaneously happy and sad, then hisses as Liyin rolls his ankle. “No, I haven’t.” Of course, he doesn’t want to forget Chanyeol’s death again. But remembering hurts. “Jongdae, you are doing a terrible job right now.”

 

“Sorry, sorry.” Jongdae laughs. “What methods of distraction would you prefer? An incredible singing performance by yours truly? Extremely accurate vocal imitations?” He leans over Baekhyun to wiggle his eyebrows. “Heart-stopping kisses?”

 

Baekhyun chokes back a whimper of pain expressly to save breath to say, “Don’t you _dare_ kiss me, I will kick you right in your...smarmy face.” His foot jerks in Liyin’s grasp, right on cue (though not on purpose). 

 

Jongdae laughs, drawing back with a grin. “Oh, come on. I’m probably a really good kisser.”

 

Baekhyun covers his mouth with his arm and says, “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

 

Jongdae feigns a lunge at him, making kissy sounds, and Baekhyun shrieks, nearly kicking Liyin in the shoulder as he spasms.

 

“Jongdae, he asked you to distract him, not harass him,” Liyin says with a sigh. 

 

“His entire presence is harassment,” Baekhyun quips.

 

“I can’t help myself,” Jongdae says, batting his eyelashes. “He just looks so beautiful, all helpless and unwashed and sickly.” 

 

Baekhyun snorts, then dissolves into giggles that he tries to muffle against his arm. Jongdae beams at him, and Baekhyun struggles to hold up a hand so Jongdae can slap it. 

 

“I don’t understand you at all,” Liyin sighs, rubbing her fingers along the arch of Baekhyun’s foot. “Come on, let’s try standing a little.”

 

“Noooo,” Baekhyun whimpers pitifully. 

 

“You’re going to end up crippled forever if you don’t,” his nurse says sternly. 

 

“Jongdae, save me.”

 

“All I can do is cheer you on, darling.”

 

Unfortunately, Jongdae has to leave as soon as Baekhyun’s physio is done, lingering in the doorway on his way out. “Don’t miss me too much,” he calls, wiggling his fingers at Baekhyun, who spent the last half hour crying and laughing at Jongdae’s bad jokes. 

 

“I won’t,” Baekhyun coos back, already shuffling Yixing’s stack of cards. The conjurer is sliding into the chair next to his bed, smiling gently. 

 

“Call me if you have any secrets to share.” Jongdae begins stepping out of the room. “Write me love poems. Dream of me.”

 

“Likewise, sweetheart,” Baekhyun says, his voice exaggeratedly saccharine. 

 

Jongdae blows him a kiss, then leaves. Baekhyun hears his voice drift back through the door as he yells, “Miss you already!”

 

Baekhyun cracks up. “You’re a gift, Jongdae!”

 

“You know it!”

 

The room falls into silence as Baekhyun starts dealing cards and Yixing places beads on the bed between them. Baekhyun only realizes he’s still smiling when Yixing quietly says, “You two have become close really quickly.”

 

Baekhyun shrugs. “He reminds me of Chanyeol a lot. I get along well with the… _obnoxious and loud_ type. Because I am also that type.”

 

Yixing glances up at him, smiling. “He seems very eager to kiss you.”

 

Baekhyun snickers, then freezes, looking up sharply to meet his gaze. “Hold on. Stop right there. Do not turn harmless...banter into something it isn’t.”

 

Yixing lifts his eyebrows slightly. “You’re not interested?”

 

“God, no. Gross.” Baekhyun shakes his head, shuddering. “Jongdae is great. Mostly because he is very much like me, and I am great.” He smirks. “But me and him? Together? Can you imagine?” Another shudder. “God, what a...disaster. We’d annoy the hell out of each other.”

 

Yixing chuckles, turning back to his cards. “That’s true.”

 

“No spreading rumours,” Baekhyun says sternly, shaking a finger. “Now make your wager.”

 

“Yes sir,” Yixing says obediently, smiling wider. “Six beads.”

 

Baekhyun gapes. “Did I not shuffle properly?”

 

Yixing wiggles his eyebrows. “Or am I bluffing?”

 

“I hate gambling with you,” Baekhyun grumps. “Your face is too perfect for this. You look like an angel. How could you possibly be playing me?”

 

Yixing smiles, propping his chin on his hand. “You’re the one who counts cards.”

 

“Only when my brain is working right,” Baekhyun mutters. “Alright, let’s do this. You better be bluffing, or I will be _very_ upset.”

 

 

 

 

Halfway through a second round, after Baekhyun loses the first one in a spectacular bluff gone wrong, Baekhyun remembers. 

 

It’s a small memory. Or at least, he thinks so. He stops in the middle of taking a card from the stack and drops it, eyes widening. “I need you to get Jongdae,” he says, frantic. “I need you to get him right now.”

 

“What?” Yixing says, blinking in surprise. 

 

“Now!” Baekhyun says, slapping at his arm weakly. 

 

Yixing jumps out of his seat and runs to the door, where he tells one of the evening guards to fetch Jongdae immediately. Then he returns, reaching out to hold Baekhyun’s hand. “Hey, what’s up? You can talk to me,” he says gently, soothingly. 

 

Baekhyun’s free hand curls in his hair as his eyes squeeze shut. “Dirt,” he mutters, shaking with how hard he’s concentrating. “Fucking...shovel.”

 

“Do whatever you need to do to retain the memory,” Yixing encourages. 

 

“What if I lose it again?” Baekhyun asks, opening his eyes, swallowing hard. “What if I lose it and don’t get it back?”

 

“You’re going to tell Jongdae about it, and if you lose it, he’ll remind you,” Yixing says, his voice steady. 

 

“But I’ll lose it. I’m always losing things. I hate always losing things.” Baekhyun’s breaths turn shallow and quick. 

 

“Hey, focus on keeping it right now, okay? Just until Jongdae gets here, and you can tell him. Or you can tell me.” Yixing holds his hand tightly.

 

“I can’t.” Baekhyun shakes his head fervently. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”

 

“Focus on keeping it right now,” Yixing repeats, reaching out to cover Baekhyun’s eyes with a cool, soft hand. 

 

Baekhyun closes his eyes again obediently, tries to keep the images in his head, the details. He plays them over and over again, frantically, panicking when he notices a gap, when he skips over things, when he thinks he’s forgotten something. 

 

“Baek?”

 

Baekhyun’s eyes snap open. “Yixing, go.”

 

Yixing holds his hand for one more second, smiling his patient smile, and then he stands up and retreats to the attached room to give them privacy. 

 

Jongdae takes his seat immediately. “Lay it on me.”

 

Baekhyun talks for five minutes straight, unloading detail after detail onto Jongdae, remembering things as he goes, going back to add things, and generally making a big mess of his most recent memory. In his rush, his speech is even worse than usual, his aphasia even more pronounced and maddening. He plows on regardless, hoping Jongdae can make sense of it, hoping he’s not leaving out too many vital words. Jongdae listens patiently, suggesting words when Baekhyun fails to retrieve them on his own. 

 

As expected, it’s nothing that important, and there are still bits missing. He basically just rambles clumsily to Jongdae for ages about finding something buried underground in Q-16’s fields—something that happened every other day when he first started working as a Grower, tilling rows for planting. Still, he feels compelled to share every detail of the memory as he remembers it—the texture of the sack everything was buried in, the heat of the sun on his back, the dew clinging to the cuff of his pants, the conversation he had with a fellow Grower just prior, showing the contents of the bag to Chanyeol and Yifan later. He doesn’t remember the specifics of what was inside, or the exact date, or even what he did with it afterwards, which is frustrating. But he still remembers a lot. He feels proud of himself and his faulty, slowly-healing brain. 

 

“You know,” Jongdae says afterwards, looking sleepy—it’s late in the evening, he probably got pulled out of his bed. “When I agreed to this job, I definitely thought I’d be learning more heinous secrets.”

 

Baekhyun snorts. “Q-16 doesn’t _have_ heinous secrets.”

 

“None that you remember,” Jongdae says, grinning. 

 

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “Just wait until I start getting back the _really_ boring stuff. The...textbook passages and history...lectures.”

 

Jongdae groans. “Why didn’t Community Leader just, you know, write this shit down? Instead of using you as a living encyclopedia?”

 

Baekhyun fingers the beads still resting on his blanket idly. “There wasn’t time,” he says with a shrug. “I could read a textbook much faster than someone could copy down the words. The electronic booklets were breaking down quickly, and Community Leader was panicking about losing important information. Plus, I’m sure you guys were running low on resources, too—we didn’t even have that much paper to spare. Not to write out entire textbooks.” 

 

Jongdae shrugs. “But what about the really important stuff? The, you know, the confidential shit, the codes and the secrets of the universe.”

 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jongdae? But Community Leader is...paranoid as fuck.” Baekhyun cracks a wry grin. “Why do you think he’s so against paranormal alliances? The man’s...fucking psychotic. That’s the kind of guy who gets his—” He pauses, pretends his slip was just another language blunder. “Who gets a kid to memorize important information instead of writing it down where someone could find it.”

 

Jongdae shakes his head. “He must be kicking himself for it now, though.”

 

Baekhyun smiles a little, shrugs. “Probably why he hasn’t come to see me at all in the past month and gets his updates from my nurse.”

 

Jongdae blinks at him, surprised. “He asks me about you almost every day.”

 

“Yeah. Figures.” Baekhyun sighs softly. “Doesn’t want to face his failures head-on.”

 

Jongdae frowns, but doesn’t say anything. 

 

A knock at the door distracts them, and Yixing pokes his head in a moment later. “Got it?” he asks. 

 

Baekhyun smiles. “Yeah. Most of it, anyway. Haven’t forgotten yet.”

 

Yixing beams back. “That’s great, Baekhyun. I’m so glad.”

 

“Yeah. Thanks.” Baekhyun laughs a little in his sudden joy. Every memory, no matter how small, is a gift. He’s getting better. 

 

“Let me know if you wanna keep playing,” Yixing says, nodding towards the cards scattered around Baekhyun’s bed. Then he retreats, still smiling. 

 

Baekhyun hums, pleased, as he picks up the cards he’d dropped on his lap. His grip strength is getting better, too, although his gross motor skills are still shit. 

 

When he looks up, Jongdae’s chin is in his hands as he leans on Baekhyun’s bed, and his eyebrows are wiggling as he glances from the door to Baekhyun. “He seems to like you a lot.”

 

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, slapping Jongdae with his handful of cards. “Everyone is way too interested in my...personal relationships. How about you focus on my recovery instead?”

 

“Hmm?” Jongdae says curiously, eyes alight. 

 

“Nothing. Xing was asking me earlier if I liked you.” Baekhyun snorts. 

 

“Oh he was, was he?” Jongdae’s grin widens. 

 

“Don’t even start. I told him I...abhor you.” Baekhyun makes a face at him, silently pleased with the progress he’s made with his vocabulary, even if word retrieval can take time. 

 

“Baek, I thought you loved me,” Jongdae says with a hurt gasp. 

 

“Ew.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Jongdae smugly says, “You called him _Xing_.” 

 

Baekhyun tries, unsuccessfully, to poke him in the eye. “Joonmyun calls him that. It caught on.”

 

“Hmmmmmm,” is Jongdae’s only reply, lips curled impishly. “He was getting pretty cozy with you when I came in.”

 

“Stop being useless or go home, Jongdae.”

 

“But Baek, I was hoping you’d ask me to stay the night,” Jongdae says with a pout. 

 

“I know you’re trying to be...obscene, but honestly, if you want to cuddle with me all night, I’m not going to say no.”

 

Jongdae grins. “You probably smell, but I’m in.”

 

Baekhyun laughs, scooting towards the wall to make room. “Get in.”

 

Jongdae kicks off his shoes and dives under the blanket, jostling Baekhyun painfully. He doesn’t complain. 

 

“Chanyeol used to sneak into my room when we were kids to sleep in my bed,” he says quietly into the following silence. “He was super cuddly. Got lonely at night. Ran way too hot, though.”

 

Jongdae knocks his head gently against Baekhyun’s. “He sounds like a cool guy.”

 

“Yeah,” Baekhyun sighs. “Sorry I talk about him a lot.”

 

“I’d never tell you not to,” Jongdae says softly. 

 

The door opens again a few minutes later, while Baekhyun is still focusing on not letting his tears fall. Yixing peeks in. “Hello, is it a slumber party?”

 

Jongdae laughs. “Yeah. Sorry, I don’t think we could fit three on here.”

 

“Can barely fit two,” Baekhyun says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a little shaky. 

 

“Joonmyun might get jealous if I left him, anyway,” Yixing says with a soft laugh, stepping in to pull the blanket over Baekhyun’s uncovered feet. He glances at Jongdae meaningfully and then lifts his eyebrows at Baekhyun. 

 

“Still gross,” Baekhyun says dryly. 

 

Yixing laughs. “Goodnight,” he says, turning off the solar lamp next to Baekhyun’s bed. “Sweet dreams.”

 

“Night, Dad,” Jongdae calls as Yixing closes the door behind him. Then, after a long pause, he smugly says, “He likes you.” 

 

“Shut up before I...suffocate you, you obnoxious child.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

***

 

Yifan manages to last an entire month before he breaks down.

 

He delays it for as long as he can. He tries not to think about it, he distracts himself, he reminds himself that he can’t fall apart in front of Zitao. But it catches up to him. He goes to bed on his little mat next to Zitao’s, and suddenly it’s overwhelming. 

 

Everything is his fault. Chanyeol’s capture—possibly death—is his fault. He gave Chanyeol the wrong orders on purpose, he didn’t get Chanyeol up to date on maneuvers and strategy. Luhan’s involvement is his fault. The fact that Luhan hasn’t returned, has possibly been taken or killed, is his fault. In the space of a couple weeks, he very well may have killed two of his closest friends. None of this would have happened if not for him. 

 

He should have been the one taken. He should have been the one killed. He should have told Chanyeol to stay in the trenches, even if he was supposed to be in Yifan’s rank. He should have sacrificed himself for his best friend when he first went down. He should have never allowed something like that to happen. And he never should have asked Luhan to join him on this stupid, dangerous mission. Luhan, who isn’t even a soldier. Who just wanted to help, not knowing fully what he was up against, what he was risking. He should have gone on this mission alone. Should have risked his own life to do his own damn recon. He owed Chanyeol that much. He owes both of them his life. 

 

But there’s nothing he can do now. If they’re dead, there’s nothing he can do to bring them back. And now he’s just lying in a bed generously offered by a boy who’s just as lonely as he is, because of something his own community, his own comrades, Yifan himself, did. Lying to him every day, appealing to his sympathetic nature, just so Yifan can eat his food and sleep in his home. 

 

Yifan is deplorable, he’s a monster, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. 

 

He stumbles out of Zitao’s tent in the middle of the night, gasping for air, and sits on the other side of the rows of corn, muffling sobs into his hands. How could he mess up so spectacularly, on so many separate occasions? How could he ruin so many people’s lives? How can he live with himself, now, knowing what he’s done? He can’t go back to Q-16 without Chanyeol or Luhan. He could never face them again—face his friends, his family, his leaders. Chanyeol’s and Luhan’s friends and famiIies. He probably wouldn’t be allowed back in regardless. But how can he stay here? What can he do? 

 

“Yifan?” 

 

He grits his teeth, tries to hide his face. The mostly-full moon is bright, and Zitao will be able to see his tears. “Hey, sorry, did I wake you?” His voice is rough, shaky. He doesn’t deserve Zitao’s concern. 

 

“I woke up and you weren’t there. I was worried you’d left.” Zitao draws closer, sits down next to him in the grass. A warm hand rests on Yifan’s knee. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing. Go back to bed. I just wanted some air.” He especially doesn’t deserve for Zitao to want him there. 

 

Zitao doesn’t budge, breathing slow in the quiet night. “Are you scared you’ll never see them again?”

 

Yifan has to fight not to make a pained sound. That _is_ what he’s most afraid of, though Zitao doesn’t know the truth of his own statement. He’s afraid he’ll never see his friends again. Because he killed them. Because he made too many mistakes. “Yeah,” he whispers.

 

“Everything seems so much darker at night,” Zitao says softly, then chuckles a little. “I mean, literally and figuratively. It’s hard to stay optimistic.”

 

Yifan shrugs. It’s hard to be optimistic at all. 

 

“Don’t give up, though,” Zitao continues, squeezing his knee. “I know you miss them and I know it seems impossible, but you...you have someone out there. And maybe they’re waiting for you. Or maybe they think you’re not coming, but they’re secretly, in the dead of night, hoping you will. If you haven’t forgotten them, they haven’t forgotten you. They might be just as desperate to see you again.”

 

Yifan squeezes his eyes shut, drawing a shuddering breath. Zitao has no idea what he’s saying, but it still rings with truth. 

 

“Don’t give up until you’ve really exhausted all your options,” Zitao says quietly. “Because at least...at least you have someone. Okay?” Then, even quieter, he says, “And if you never find them, you’re welcome with me. For as long as that’s an option.”

 

Yifan swallows hard, doesn’t miss the implications in that last addition. “What do you mean?” 

 

Zitao sighs, one long exhale that he seems to draw out to buy time. Then, carefully, he says, “I should probably tell you something.”

 

“What?” Yifan’s heart pounds—does Zitao know something? Has he figured Yifan out? No, that doesn’t make sense. 

 

“I’m dying.”

 

And Yifan’s heart stops. “What?”

 

Zitao’s throat clicks beside him, but his face is turned away, into the horizon. “You know I’m a conjurer, right?”

 

Yifan nods. They haven’t really brought it up since Zitao first confessed to it, but Yifan has thought about it plenty. It hasn’t changed how giving and caring Zitao is. It hasn’t changed how human he is. 

 

“And conjurers need a sorcerer. I had a sorcerer. You know that.”

 

“Yes,” Yifan whispers. 

 

“But you probably don’t know that...I mean, conjurers and sorcerers _need_ each other. From the second sorcerers start presenting their abilities, they’re searching for a partner. Conjurers can go a long time, their whole lives, without needing a partner, sometimes not even realizing they _have_ that power if they don’t grow up paranormal. But sorcerers really struggle without one. Conjurers are their outlets.” Zitao takes a deep breath. “Conjurers don’t need a partner, but once they have one, that’s a lifelong bond. A _strong_ bond. It’s...you give a piece of yourselves to each other, in a way. You’re exchanging energy constantly. And once a bond is made, if it’s broken...that’s really bad. Maybe it’s a survival thing—to make sure you’re doing everything you can to keep your partner safe. But if one dies...it’s really rare for the other to live.”

 

Yifan stares at him, eyes wide. “Tao—”

 

“I’m not saying this so you’ll pity me,” Zitao says quickly. “I know it’s coming. I’ve known it since she died. I—I feel her absence really, really strongly. It’s why partners almost never separate once they’ve begun working together. To separate could be a death sentence. It’s… _really_ painful. It feels like losing half your body, especially if you’ve been together for a while.” Zitao turns, looks at Yifan with wide eyes. “It’s not fair for me to not tell you. It’s been months since she was taken away from me. It rarely takes more than a year for the other half to die.”

 

Grief and horror clog up Yifan’s throat. “How—how much longer do you think you have?” 

 

Zitao shakes his head. “I don’t know. It could be anywhere from...a month to a year, max. I just want...wanted you to know. That I can’t stay with you forever. But you can stay here for as long as you need.” He smiles slightly, and it’s wobbly in the watery moonlight. “I’m—I’m not saying I’m not scared. I mean, who isn’t scared of dying? But I hope you won’t act like I’ll be gone any day now. I don’t want you to pity me.”

 

Yifan stares at him, overwhelmed, and then he feels the way Zitao’s hand trembles on his knee and he reaches out instinctively to pull the younger boy against him, wrap his arm around him tightly. “Do you—do you want me to stay with you until the end?” he asks, voice breaking. 

 

“No,” Zitao says immediately, leaning into him. “No, Yifan, you should look for your family. I don’t want you to be too late, for my sake.”

 

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Yifan fires back. “Tao, you shouldn’t—”

 

“I’m going to join X-22,” Zitao interrupts. “I won’t be alone. When you go, I’ll join them. I want you to be able to do what you came here to do.”

 

Yifan doesn’t know what to say, so he just holds on, thinking that Zitao doesn’t deserve this, he’s the _last_ person that would deserve this, but Yifan sure as hell deserves for his world to continuously crumble around him. 

 

“I’m sorry that I can’t stay for you, though,” Zitao says softly. “You’ve done...a lot for me, Yifan. I’m really, really grateful. You’re a really great person.”

 

Yifan barks out a bitter laugh at the irony, loud in the quiet night. “I’m really not, Tao. If anyone’s great, it’s you.”

 

“I don’t think so. You try really hard, Yifan. You care about people. And you try to understand people.”

 

Yifan shakes his head, clenching his jaw. “I’m not good, Tao. I need to be a lot better. Especially considering all the shit I have to make up for.”

 

“Then I have faith that you’ll be better.” Zitao squeezes his knee again. “Staying with me until now has been your first step. So...when you leave, keep striving to be better, okay? Even if you don’t find them, don’t live your life in regret. You can’t change the past. So just be better and better.”

 

Yifan has to take a moment to breathe deeply, swallow down the emotion building up in his chest and throat. “You’re an awesome kid, did you know that?” he says in the end, voice thick. 

 

Zitao turns to smile at him, wide and genuine. “Lucky to have known you.”

 

Yifan shakes his head. “I think it’s the other way around.”

 

“I don’t.” Zitao presses into his side briefly. “Let’s go to bed? I’m really tired.”

 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

 

They struggle upright and return to the tent slowly, and Zitao is smiling when he says his goodnights and pulls his blanket to his chin. He’s smiling, even though he’s dying. And Yifan is going to bed, arguably more upset than he had been before Zitao came out to find him. But at least he’s not hysterical. And at least now he understands that, although he can’t do anything about what’s already done, he can do his fucking best to change the future for the better. 

 

He still has no idea what he’s going to do. But he sure as hell can’t spend his time crying in the dark about the person he’s been.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Just realized I should probably say, in case any of you only found me here on AO3, I have an [LJ](https://allhandson-deck.livejournal.com)! Which is where I have a TON of other fics! A lot of my older fics are member-locked, but feel free to join the comm to read them if you so desire ^^
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)! (i fixed these links, in case anyone tried clicking them in the past >__>)
> 
> See a handy-dandy character profile cheat sheet for this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/18gTX4vnlefUD9A-14t38WgtrExH8rnzZSWdeEEGYEr8/edit)!


	12. Chapter 12

Chanyeol loves the sound of Kyungsoo’s voice. 

Objectively, it’s a nice voice, low and smooth and full. But it’s a lot more than that for Chanyeol. In a place where comfort is the last thing people think of offering him, Kyungsoo’s voice is just that. The moment he hears Kyungsoo’s quiet greeting to Seulgi as he arrives to take over her shift, something shifts in his chest, something settles. He closes his eyes, lets that voice wrap around him. All day, Chanyeol works, he pushes through pain and feverish haze, he rubs away tears of frustration and discomfort, he aches with how badly he misses his friends and his family, his home. 

And then he hears Kyungsoo’s voice, and he can breathe. He knows that Kyungsoo will come in, smile at him, take care of him. For a couple of hours, he’ll be taken care of, and he won’t be alone. Before Kyungsoo even comes in, Chanyeol feels the stress of his day, the growing blackness of loneliness, melting away. 

The week that Kyungsoo had ignored him had been unspeakably difficult, maybe even darker in hindsight than it had been in the moment. But Kyungsoo promised he would do everything he could to help Chanyeol. And he’s been keeping that promise as best as he can, Chanyeol knows. He doesn’t think Kyungsoo understands how big of a difference it makes to him. 

“Hello, Chanyeol.” The rattle of keys against the lock makes Chanyeol shiver with anticipation. He knows it’s not healthy, how dependent he is on Kyungsoo, how attached he’s grown, but what else can he do? How else could he survive? He closes his eyes and holds onto that moment of all-consuming relief. 

Kyungsoo doesn’t speak as he walks towards Chanyeol with his meal tray, which Chanyeol expects now. He’s waiting to make sure Seulgi is gone, that she won’t hear him. Chanyeol knows he doesn’t want to risk being overheard. 

Chanyeol lowers himself to the floor slowly, using his good hand to hold onto the Machine so he doesn’t tip over. Kyungsoo comes around to settle the tray on his lap, watching the dishes so nothing spills over. When he looks up into Chanyeol’s face, he’s smiling, soft and warm, and Chanyeol soaks it up—this precious moment of being cared for, cared _about_. 

“Hey,” Kyungsoo says, quiet, private. “How are you feeling today?”

Chanyeol shrugs, staring into his face, not wanting to blink while Kyungsoo is still smiling. Chanyeol doesn’t see a lot of happy faces, and especially not directed at him. He thinks Kyungsoo knows this. “I’m okay,” he remembers to say. 

“Yeah?” Kyungsoo says. “You don’t have to lie to me, Chanyeol. Or downplay how you’re feeling.” His eyes are wide, earnest. Chanyeol commits them to memory. 

“I mean, I’m not feeling _awesome_ ,” Chanyeol says. “Not exactly doing _cartwheels._ ”

Kyungsoo chuckles a little, and Chanyeol memorizes that, too. “I brought you fresh bandages. Do you want to change them yourself, or would you rather I did it?”

“You do it,” Chanyeol says, because he loves the gentle way Kyungsoo holds his hand when he replaces the old bandage with new. No one has touched him with gentleness in weeks. 

“Sure.” Kyungsoo glances back at the door, then settles on his haunches beside him. He’s always paranoid about people checking on him, catching him inside the building with Chanyeol. But he stays inside anyway, as much as he dares. That means a lot to Chanyeol. “How’s the fever?” he asks. “Gone down?”

“Dunno,” Chanyeol says. He was shivering earlier, his skin painfully sensitive and his body achy, but it’s lessened to a duller feeling now. He’s not sure if that’s good or not. 

Kyungsoo looks him over, then reaches out to press his hand to Chanyeol’s forehead, under his sloppily-cut fringe. Chanyeol gasps lightly, pressing into the touch instinctively, wanting to feel more of it, loving the sensation of Kyungsoo’s cool palm against his warm skin. It makes him think of old, old films with cats arching into the touch of their owners, seeking out contact. That’s how Chanyeol feels. He’s been so starved for touch that he feels like he’d trade a limb for one goddamn hug. He just wants to be held. 

But that’s not going to happen, so he settles for what he can get, and hopes for an extra second of Kyungsoo feeling his forehead for a fever. 

It takes every ounce of self-restraint he has not to reach up and hold it there. 

“Feels a little better,” Kyungsoo says, completely unaware—or maybe just hiding it well. He rubs the side of his hand against Chanyeol’s cheek, probably wiping away rust or dirt there, and Chanyeol almost whimpers. He just—he just wants. He wants so badly that it aches. 

A sudden, “Hello?” has Kyungsoo wrenching his hand away, though, retreating quickly, even as Jongin steps into view of the doorway. He peers through the bars, squinting against the dimness. “Kyungsoo?”

“Hey, Jonginnie,” Kyungsoo says, breathing a sigh of relief. He knows Jongin won’t turn him in. If anything, Jongin is the person pushing Kyungsoo to spend more time inside with Chanyeol. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just checking on him.” Jongin nods towards Chanyeol with an uncertain smile. Behind him, Sehun peeks over his shoulder nervously. 

“Why, did you feel something?” Kyungsoo asks. His tone is anxious, and Chanyeol appreciates that, even if he doesn’t necessarily like being talked about like he’s not there. It means Kyungsoo worries about him. 

“No, no,” Jongin says. “I mean, this whole building is still...drenched in negative energy, but. If anything, it’s lessened.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Kyungsoo’s shoulders relax, and Chanyeol wishes he was facing him so he could see if he’s smiling again.

Jongin leans left, tries to get a better look at Chanyeol. “Head’s a lot better. Hand is still bad. Full-body heat. Fever?”

Chanyeol smiles uneasily. He’s been told over and over that paranormals are dangerous, weird, untrustworthy. But Jongin, this paranormal kid, has been nothing but kind to him, checking on him every day like clockwork, making sure Kyungsoo is helping him, all sympathetic eyes and earnest updates on his progress. Something like that is bound to change your worldview, Chanyeol figures. 

The intuitive diagnoses still kind of freak him out though. 

“I still want to try to heal his hand,” Jongin grumps, crossing his arms. 

“You’ve never even healed a plant before,” Sehun says carefully from behind him. 

“We’re getting better!” Jongin insists. “Me and Minseok are getting a lot better. And this is different. This is...I feel like this is a different kind of energy.” He frowns. “Not that anyone ever _told_ me about different types of energy. Not like this.”

Sehun pats his arm consolingly, and then his hand lingers there. Chanyeol wishes Kyungsoo would do that to him. 

“Jongin, you know you’re not supposed to be here,” Kyungsoo sighs. “You’re going to get me in trouble if you keep coming back.”

“I just wanted to make sure he was okay,” Jongin mumbles, ducking his head. 

“Don’t be mean,” Sehun says to his brother. 

“Excuse me for not wanting to lose my job,” Kyungsoo fires back, but then he walks to the barred door and sticks his hand through to ruffle first Sehun’s hair, then Jongin’s. The latter looks surprised. Chanyeol watches jealously. “Now go away. Go play.”

“I’m not a little kid!” Sehun protests, crossing his arms. “I’m a working adult. This is my first evening off all week. And that’s only because...” He trails off, scratches his arm embarrassedly. 

“They realized they were working you too hard. Which is why you should rest,” Kyungsoo says, voice softening as he curls his hand around the back of Sehun’s neck to squeeze it reassuringly. “Go on, get out of here.”

Sehun sighs, and Jongin looks at him in concern before he glances in at Chanyeol one last time. “You’re taking care of him?” he asks Kyungsoo without looking away. 

“Yeah, Jongin. I’m doing what I can.”

“Good.” Jongin nods, then turns and begins the walk back to the community. 

“Don’t get caught coming out here or going back,” Kyungsoo calls after them as Sehun hurries to join him. He watches after his brother until he’s out of sight, then lets out his own sigh. “He had another seizure earlier today. He doesn’t want to tell anyone. But he’s worried. And embarrassed.”

Behind him, Chanyeol nods slowly, not entirely sure why Kyungsoo is telling him something like that, but more concerned with how far away Kyungsoo is from him. 

Kyungsoo glances back at him, smiling wryly. “Eat your supper. I’ll deal with the bandage after. Don’t want to ruin your appetite.”

Chanyeol swallows thickly. “Okay.”

The sound of the door being unlocked is sickening to Chanyeol. He knows Kyungsoo has to spend some time outside the building, just in case someone other than Sehun and Jongin comes to check on him, but he still hates it. He already gets so little time with him. 

As if reading his mind, Kyungsoo calls back, quiet from his station outside the door, “I asked Seulgi and Joohyun about switching shifts. Just because, you know, it might be nice for you if someone could help you with your work during the day. But neither of them wants the night shift, obviously. And I can’t really push it without seeming suspicious.” He sighs. “Maybe I’ll try again another time. I’ll try to think of an excuse.”

“Okay,” Chanyeol says, beginning to eat his meal. The faster he eats it, the sooner Kyungsoo will come back inside. 

“Let me know if you need anything, okay? Even if I can’t get everything for you. Just...let me know.”

Chanyeol cracks a half smile at that. “Okay.”

He finishes the rest of his meal in silence. 

As soon as he’s done, Kyungsoo opens the door again and slips through, picking up the clean bandages from where he’d dropped them earlier. He folds his legs under him next to Chanyeol and reaches for his hand, peeling the old cloths off millimeter by millimeter, pouring water from his own flask onto it to loosen it where it sticks to the scab. His hands are gentle and careful, and Chanyeol soaks in every touch greedily. But it’s clear that Kyungsoo’s mind is elsewhere, his eyes unfocused, his brow furrowed. Chanyeol watches him as he works silently and wishes he would smile. 

At the same time, it’s almost torture, having Kyungsoo so close, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his body, to feel his steady breaths on his wrist, but barely touching him. Chanyeol feels like a starving man presented with a hot meal that isn’t for him. All that warm, soft skin, and Chanyeol can’t have it. He wants to wrap around him, bury his face in Kyungsoo’s neck to breathe in the smell of him, but he has to sit there quietly while his wound is rebandaged. Painfully, he might add, despite Kyungsoo’s gentleness.

“You never talk about your family.”

Chanyeol starts, surprised by Kyungsoo’s quiet voice. “What?”

Kyungsoo glances up at him, full lips quirked up. Chanyeol sways forwards instinctively and has to reel himself back. “I realized it after Sehun left. Talking about your family is just...something you do. And you, specifically, talk a lot. But you’ve never mentioned your family to me before, or your friends.” His thumb taps the unbroken skin under Chanyeol’s open sore. “How come?”

Chanyeol has to swallow thickly before he can answer. “I...Kyungsoo, of course I wouldn’t talk about them. I’m a prisoner of war. I don’t want them used against me. And I want to protect them.”

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows draw together immediately, and his hands freeze where they’re tying the new bandage around Chanyeol’s. “You—you think I would do that?”

He doesn’t. Or at least, he doesn’t want to. But Chanyeol can’t afford to believe those kinds of things. “It’s not about what _you_ would do,” he says. “It’s what this community would do. What they’re already doing.” 

Kyungsoo exhales slowly, then clenches his jaw. “I...understand that,” he says, but it looks like he’s hurt nonetheless. Chanyeol doesn’t want to hurt him. Kyungsoo is the only person, until Jongin, who has given a shit about him all this time. He’s the only person Chanyeol trusts at all. 

And that’s scary, if he thinks about it. He shouldn’t trust anyone. He’s in no position to trust anyone. He’s in enemy territory, he’s being held against his will, he’s being forced to fix a killing machine. He’s being threatened with death every day, even if it’s merely implied. He should trust _no one._

And yet here Kyungsoo is, in front of him, bandaging his hand for him, talking to him, his eyes wide and earnest, his expression fracturing because Chanyeol is implying that he thinks Kyungsoo would kill his family. 

But he would, wouldn’t he? If he was given orders to. He would kill the people of Q-16, because his own community is on the verge of starving, of not being able to make it through the coming winter. And Chanyeol would do the same, in his position. Wouldn’t he? 

He keeps having that dream about telling Yifan not to kill them, though. 

Everything is such a mess. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He flexes his fingers, pushes his hand into Kyungsoo’s so that he’ll finish tying off the bandage. “It’s just...hard. To know what to do. And what to feel.”

Kyungsoo sighs, and his fingers start moving again. “I know. It’s hard for me, too.”

Chanyeol nods slowly, watching Kyungsoo’s hands, his face. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Just...for everything.”

Kyungsoo takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Don’t thank me, Chanyeol. I don’t deserve gratitude for something like this.”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to say. Instead, he tries to focus on the feeling of Kyungsoo’s fingertips pressing into his skin. 

“Talk about something else,” Kyungsoo says suddenly. He pats Chanyeol’s wrist above his wound and looks up to smile at him, obviously forced but still achingly warm. “I know you like talking. Lay it on me.”

The tug on Chanyeol’s heart at that look on his face, fond and kind and almost affectionate, is dangerous. He knows it’s dangerous. But he embraces it nonetheless, holds onto the warm feeling that spreads through his chest, and smiles back.

***

Sehun is quiet as he and Jongin return to the community, which is...worrying. Sehun isn’t a chatterbox by any means, at least not with Jongin. But he’s become increasingly free with his words over the past weeks, sharing stories or his thoughts. Until today. Jongin doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know if he wants to.

“You _have_ been busy lately,” Jongin ventures timidly as they pass their houses. He braces himself for a negative response, maybe evasion. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Sehun looks up from the crumbled walkways to smile slightly. His wavelengths are sour, but not angry-sour. Jongin feels ridiculously relieved. “A bunch of things have been ready to harvest suddenly, so it’s been really crazy...you know, picking and drying and preserving and everything. We’ve needed all the help we can get.”

Jongin feels his eyes widen. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Harvest season is really busy, I guess. But I get...tired easily.” His smile is small, embarrassed. 

“I see.” Jongin hesitates, almost doesn’t say what he’d been thinking, then says it anyway. Yixing once told him that honesty is the basis for a relationship. He was talking about sorcerer-conjurer relationships, but, well. “I thought maybe you were mad at me for getting you in trouble with your brother.”

“Brother? Kyungsoo?” Sehun looks puzzled. “For what?”

“For finding out about Chanyeol.” Jongin shrugs, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know.”

Sehun laughs a little. “He wasn’t mad at me. It’s not like I showed you against orders. You found him on your own.”

Jongin breathes out a short sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Sehun says, and Jongin would feel embarrassed for thinking so if Sehun didn’t sound so earnest. “I was just busy.”

“Okay,” Jongin says, and he has to bite back a smile. 

“Let’s hang out today, though,” Sehun says. “I mean, I don’t care what we do. But we can do something together.”

This time, Jongin doesn’t even try not to smile. “Okay,” he says again. It’s nice to feel...wanted again, even if it’s just to keep another lonely person company. 

“Jongin,” says a sudden voice, and Jongin turns to see the community leader herself walking towards them. 

He stiffens immediately, nervous. “Yes, ma’am?” he says, fighting not to glance guiltily back at the building behind them. 

“What were you doing out there?” Boa asks, eyebrows raised. 

“He was showing me some of the fields he and Minseok have been working in,” Sehun says, before Jongin can even begin to think of an excuse. “The cucumbers back there, you know? I think that might be why so many vegetables are ready all of a sudden. They’re doing too good of a job.” He chuckles lightly. 

Jongin forces a laugh as well, looking at Boa uncertainly. The community leader merely smiles briefly, and then is back to being all business. 

“X-22—sorry, X-22 Delta—had a visitor earlier today. They brought this letter. I’d like your thoughts.”

“ _My_ thoughts?” Jongin all but squeaks. “Why mine?”

Boa smiles again, a little more genuinely this time. “Because it’s from a paranormal group.”

“Oh.” Jongin blinks, surprised. “I...which one? That’s important.”

Boa holds out a folded sheet of paper, and Jongin takes it quickly, unfolding it to skip right to the end. _Signed, Taeyeon, on behalf of Beta Group._

“Oh, geez.” Jongin can’t help but frown. “Beta.”

“Something wrong?” Boa asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Oh, no. I mean, maybe. It’s just...Beta Group have a reputation for being...kind of mean. They refused to use their abilities to help people without them, you know, and they’re kind of...supremacist? Like, they think paranormals are intrinsically better than non-paranormals. Which is something Delta definitely didn’t believe,” Jongin is quick to add. “So whatever it is they want, they’re going to think they deserve it more than you, or whatever.” 

Boa sighs. “That’s unfortunate news.”

Jongin cringes, but all he can do is shrug. “Maybe their reputation is inaccurate?”

“I’m not going to risk it.” Boa shakes her head. “They want to negotiate over ownership of the southern hills. That’s where our imaginary border is, somewhere around there. Their territory starts more or less on the other side. Or at least, that’s what they tell us.”

Jongin hums. “So what are you going to do?”

The community leader takes the letter back, glances over it. “We’re going to meet with them, as requested, to discuss it. We do want that land. Having someone else roaming the hills would make me nervous, and there are some patches of good soil in there.”

“Good luck,” Jongin says honestly. “It’s been a while since I last saw them, but...they probably won’t treat you well. They really look down on non-paranormals.”

Boa looks at him with a quirk of her lips, one eyebrow lifting. “That’s why I’m going to bring you along,” she says. “Our very own paranormal representative of X-22 Delta.” 

Jongin gapes. “Me? But I’m—I’m just—”

“You’re _just_ the only paranormal-raised member of our community,” Boa cuts in. “You’re the only person than can represent both sides of our community. Paranormal and non-paranormal. X-22 and Delta.”

Jongin swallows hard. “I don’t know if I can,” he says weakly. 

“I know you feel unprepared,” Boa says. “But you have some time to get ready. The meeting is tomorrow afternoon. You have that much time to decide how to make a case for our community.”

“Okay,” Jongin whimpers, because it’s clear that he doesn’t have a choice. 

“Good. Come to me if you have any questions.” With a final nod, she turns and strides back into the community, a woman on a mission. 

“Oh, god,” Jongin says quietly. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Why? I mean, I know it’s kind of scary, but—”

“No, Sehun, listen.” Jongin shakes his head, trembling. “It’s not like they don’t know who I am. We had a lot of meetings between paranormal groups after the resurfacing, when everyone started fighting. I’m—I’m literally the worst person for this job.”

“Oh.” Sehun’s wince is audible in his voice. “So, I don’t figure you’ll want to hang out tonight, huh?”

“I think I need to go lie down,” is all Jongin says in response. 

 

Minseok comes with to the negotiations with Beta Group, as “moral support,” but honestly, that just makes the whole thing worse. Jongin already knows he’s going to suffer through the meeting in front of both his community leaders and Beta’s, but to have to do so in front of Minseok, too? It seems too cruel. His conjurer partner trails along behind him as they make their way into the southern hills, flanked by Boa and Victoria, and asks him endless questions about Delta’s relationship with Beta in the past, which Jongin answers in as few words as possible, trying to conserve his energy for weathering the storm of embarrassment that is yet to come. 

“You’re not looking so hot, Nini baby,” Minseok says, sidling up beside him and nudging him with his elbow. “Scared?”

“Unprepared,” Jongin mumbles, running a hand through his hair. 

“Yeah, you might not have been the best choice for this job…” Minseok muses. 

Jongin groans. He’d be offended if he wasn’t completely right. 

“You are not being helpful, Minseok,” Boa says dryly. 

“No, ma’am, just honest.”

Minseok makes it his business to be _perfectly_ honest when Jongin is involved. 

“Jongin is here to fairly represent both sides,” Boa says firmly. “A job not even you could do, Minseok.”

Oh, god. She keeps saying that, but Jongin knows he can’t do it, either. How is he supposed to represent both sides when he barely knows anything about his own side, and the other side doesn’t even like him? He’s a lost and confused outsider. He is not an ambassador.

“Chin up, kid,” Victoria says, her hand on her blaster as she nudges Jongin much like Minseok had a second ago. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you’re expecting.”

It’s worse. 

Taeyeon, current leader of Beta Group, laughs out loud when Boa introduces Jongin. She honest-to-god laughs, not even bothering to hide it. “You brought this kid? To mediate negotiations?”

“He is our paranormal representative,” Boa says evenly, her stance strong and unfaltering. “And he is perfectly capable.”

“ _You’re_ their representative?” Taeyeon lifts her eyebrows, turns to Boa. “You picked this one out of all the paranormals in your pitiful community?”

Jongin’s heart jumps, squeezes. Of all the paranormals? Jongin is the only one left.

“Yes,” Boa says, and her tone is cool, but Jongin knows he’s giving off all sorts of pain signals, and Taeyeon is a strong sorcerer—and if she wasn’t, there are three more paranormals behind her. One of them was bound to notice. 

“What’s wrong, Jonginnie?” Taeyeon asks, smirking. The nickname drips with disdain—it’s not soft like it had been from the mouths of Joonmyun and Yixing. “Has another tragedy befallen you? Oh, dear. More paranormals have been lost at the hands of a lesser race?”

“It wasn’t their fault,” Jongin says quietly, swallowing hard. “It was an anti-paranormal group.”

“Oh, Jongin. They’re all anti-paranormal unless you’re giving them something for free.”

“Can we stay on topic, please?” Boa says quickly, stepping in. “We are not here to talk about what another group has done.”

Taeyeon snickers. “Sure, sure. You want these hills, we want these hills. Why should we let you have them?”

“They are not yours to give us,” Boa says sharply. 

Instead of arguing, Taeyeon curls her lip. “I’m not negotiating with you. I’m talking to him.” She nods at Jongin. 

Jongin gapes. God, he forgot just how condescending Beta Group was. He guesses they would have negotiated with X-22 just fine without him—they sent the letter, after all. But since he’s here, he doubts they’ll even lower themselves to speaking to Boa or Victoria, despite the fact that they’re older and _much_ more qualified. Regardless of Jongin’s age, he’s considered above non-paranormals by virtue of ability alone. 

“Go on, then, Jongin,” Boa says. Her voice is tight, but she probably doesn’t want to start trouble.

Jongin gulps and steps forward. “I, uh. We—”

“Go on, Jongin,” Taeyeon repeats, cooing. 

Jongin flushes red. “T-Taeyeon.” He cringes at his stutter—he’s not exactly proving himself. “Taeyeon,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “First of all, I am fully aware that Beta Group is considerably smaller than X-22. Delta,” he tacks onto the end. “We are a large community. I’d like to hear your case for why you believe you deserve these hills more than we do, on a purely needs-based level. Without bringing feelings of superiority into this.”

“Look at him, trying out all his big boy words on us,” Taeyeon murmurs, smiling as the man on her right—her conjurer partner, Jongin thinks—snickers. Jongin’s face goes hot. “Some representative you’ve got there, Leader.”

“I beg your pardon?” Boa says dryly behind him. 

Taeyeon pretends not to hear. “Jongin, honey, they’re not _feelings of superiority._ Our superiority—fact, not feeling—puts our needs above theirs, period. It baffles me how you fail to see that.”

Jongin is shaking as he says, “It’s not my fault that you don’t understand the purpose behind helping those who are unable to help themselves.”

“Helping the helpless, huh? Didn’t turn out too well for your parents, if I remember correctly.” Taeyeon quirks an eyebrow. 

Jongin freezes, his throat constricting around any reply he might have. Grief and regret and embarrassment and anger well up in his chest, and it takes every ounce of control he has not to turn away and run back home. 

“I thought so. The ‘helpless,’ as you call them, are going to take everything you have and then destroy you, just like you killed your—”

“Whoa now, I think it’s time for you to back the fuck off.”

Jongin jerks his head around to see Minseok stepping forward, eyebrows knitting together. He looks...intimidatingly pissed off. 

Taeyeon raises her eyebrows at him. “Who’s this? Never seen you before, kid.”

“I am not a kid,” Minseok says, lifting his chin defiantly. “And neither is Jongin. If you’re not going to respect him, we’re not going to negotiate with you at all. It’s that simple. Our military is, to put it simply, a real military. We’re not trying to intimidate you into backing down, so stop trying to intimidate us. It won’t work.”

Taeyeon snorts. “Got yourself a bodyguard, Jonginnie?”

“I’m a conjurer, actually,” Minseok says. “ _His_ conjurer. Which is irrelevant. Jongin doesn’t speak for me, so please say anything you might want to say to my face.”

“Feisty,” Taeyeon says. 

“More like uninterested in your childish games.” Minseok’s gaze is hard, unwavering. “Do not call Jongin ‘ _kid_ ’ again. Do not bring up his past. Do not try to humiliate him. Not only is he ambassador for X-22, but he is a powerful sorcerer, and an important member of our community. He has, without doubt, dealt with more shit than you have in your entire life, and it’s pretty clear that he is a better person than you because of it. So _do not_ look down on him. Give him the respect he deserves, or leave.”

Jongin stares, at a loss for words. Minseok stands firm, folding his arms across his chest, and holds Taeyeon’s gaze as she looks first surprised, and then vaguely impressed. “Fine,” she says airily. “I’ve had my fun. Jongin, say your piece.”

Minseok turns to look at Jongin, lips curling up. “Don’t let her think she’s better than you,” he says quietly. “I’m right behind you.”

The tightness in Jongin’s chest dissipates, and he inhales deeply, managing a smile in return. Then he says, “Taeyeon, make your case for the land. Without classist prejudice.”

Taeyeon huffs out a soft laugh, but all she says is, “The land south of the hills is rocky. Growing hearty plants in that soil is a struggle.”

“Your community is made up almost entirely of sorcerer-conjurer pairs,” Jongin fires back—he went over all of her possible arguments last night, when his anxiety kept him up until dawn. He’s prepared for something like this. “You should be perfectly capable of growing enough food for, what, a hundred men and women? A hundred fifty?”

“A hundred,” Taeyeon says, jerking her chin in a nod. “But the energy is lacking in that land. It’s difficult to find enough to bolster the growing. Plus, many of us are busy doing other jobs—not nearly all of us are free to spend our time encouraging our gardens to grow.”

“Fair enough,” Jongin relents. He flounders for a second, then latches onto the steady, warm energy of Minseok behind him. Familiar after all this time. Soothing, like a friend’s—a brother’s. “I see your need for the energy pockets in these hills.”

Taeyeon nods—it’s less the soil that she needs, and more the energy within it. 

“However, these hills are an important defensive structure for our community. We would feel uncomfortable with you spending time so close to us, but unseen,” Jongin says, parroting Boa’s complaints from yesterday. 

Taeyeon quirks an eyebrow. “You think we feel comfortable with _you_ in the hills so close to _us?_ Kid—”

A throat clears behind Jongin, and Taeyeon presses her lips together immediately. Jongin goes warm. 

“Let’s discuss this,” Jongin says slowly. “Ideally, we would both just stay out of the hills, but I see your need for the energy in the valleys. I think we can come to some sort of agreement?” Taeyeon’s lips twist briefly in a patronizing sneer, like she can’t believe Jongin is trying to do business with her, and embarrassment flashes through Jongin. For a second there, he’d felt so confident, had been so sure he was doing well. But now he feels even dumber for thinking so. He turns, glances uncertainly back at Boa. 

To his surprise, the community leader smiles approvingly back at him, nodding. Minseok catches his eye, and his expression is similar—encouraging, supportive. Jongin takes a deep breath and turns back. 

“Are you going to negotiate with me or not?” Jongin asks, maybe too briskly for a conversation with a respected leader of a paranormal group. 

But Taeyeon just sniffs and says, “What’s your offer?”

Jongin has to swallow back a smile. “Let’s talk about it. Boa? I won’t start making deals concerning your community without your input.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Jongin.” Boa steps forward, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly before facing Taeyeon fully. 

With the attention off of him for a moment, Jongin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He can do this. He _can_ do this. 

 

“I did it,” he breathes two hours later as he stumbles along behind his leaders, on his way home. 

Minseok hooks an arm around Jongin’s neck and ruffles his hair in that way he has, just this side of too rough. “You did good,” he says, patting Jongin’s cheek. 

Jongin almost melts from the simple praise. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah, Jongin. I think so.” Minseok turns to him with a crooked grin, veering right so that Jongin staggers into him. “I think I might be proud of you.”

Jongin has to bite his lip to keep from beaming. 

“Don’t think I forgot what she said about your parents, though,” Minseok says suddenly, shaking Jongin slightly. “That doesn’t sit right with me.”

Jongin swallows hard, feeling a shot of something cold slice through the warmth of his pride. “W-why do you want to know about that?”

Minseok’s arm tightens around his neck, and Jongin has to take a moment to struggle out of a headlock. He laughs. “Because, like it or not, you’re my something. And my something will not be walking around with delusions concerning his dead parents.”

Jongin hits him weakly. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“But I will, in the near future.” Minseok gives him a pointed look, then punches his shoulder. “Don’t let people push you around, okay? I can’t always be around to put them in their place.”

Jongin laughs breathlessly, his emotions a jumbled, overwhelming mess. “Okay.”

“You did good today,” Minseok says again. “I’m proud of you.”

He strides ahead to say something to Boa then, and Jongin watches his back, feeling warmth bubble up in his chest. 

It’s possible that Minseok said what he did today because negotiations would be affecting his community. But Jongin thinks he can ignore that for the time being, for his own sake. 

Jongin’s been struggling with the gaping hole in his life left when Joonmyun and Yixing were taken from him, but today, he feels like maybe, just maybe, it could be filled again. Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially halfway through this fic! :D I hope everyone is still enjoying uvu. Tell me your hopes and dreams for the second half? 
> 
> (sorry that the formatting changed, gdocs hates me and i'm not gonna bother fixing it)
> 
> Also I'm not going to be linking the character chart anymore bc I'M SURE YOU ALL KNOW IT BY NOW it's been the same for a while. But let me know if you'd like it back. 
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	13. Chapter 13

“Jongdae, _stop._ ” 

“Well I _warned_ you that if you kept pouting I would try to kiss you.”

“I didn’t think you were _serious._ ” Baekhyun keeps his hand on Jongdae’s face and leans away, knowing full well that if Jongdae wanted to, he could easily force his way closer. “What kind of friend are you? You...harass me more than you ask me about my day.”

Jongdae huffs and sits back in his chair, finding a stray bead from Yixing’s Partners Necklace and tossing it at Baekhyun’s chest. “Then tell me, my love. How was your day? Did you yearn for me in my absence?”

“Constantly,” Baekhyun replies obligingly, batting his eyelashes. 

“Already done physio for the day?” Jongdae asks. “I’m only asking to be polite. Your pillow is still damp with tears.”

“Awww, Jongdae. You really know how to...charm a guy.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “Liyin is trying really hard to get me back on my feet. But I secretly think she’s trying to _kill me._ ” He says the last two words loudly, just in case Liyin is within hearing range. 

“I don’t think she’d spend this much time and effort on someone she’s trying to kill, when there are undoubtedly faster ways,” Jongdae says, patting his leg. “How’s progress?”

“Shitty.” Baekhyun shrugs. “I fell and bruised my elbow. And cried.”

“Let me fix that.” Jongdae dives for Baekhyun’s arm, landing several kisses in the general vicinity of his elbow as Baekhyun shrieks before Baekhyun tells him, quite forcefully, that it was his _other_ elbow. A minor struggle ensues, filled with kissy noises and genuine grunts of pain from Baekhyun. His broken ribs are still tender, and he’s sore from physio earlier, but Jongdae’s enthusiasm tends to get the best of him. 

“You’re just trying to find excuses to kiss me!” Baekhyun complains loudly, holding his arm tightly—the tremors and weakness have improved, especially compared to what they were after he was first injured, but sometimes one limb will decide to twitch uncontrollably for hours. It drives him up the wall. 

“Hell yeah I’m trying to find excuses to kiss you,” Jongdae replies, winking at him. 

Baekhyun wants to laugh, but then he sees Yixing looking up from his book in the corner, watching them, and he squirms and looks away quickly. “Jongdae, you need a...significant other. You are clearly desperate for someone to unload all of your affection on.”

Jongdae gasps. “Baekhyun! How dare you underestimate our friendship like that. You are more than enough for me.” 

Baekhyun tries to poke him in the eye. It’s what he deserves for all the harassment Baekhyun suffers through. “I’m starting to worry you’re going to try and...bed me.” 

Jongdae snorts. “I’m not _that_ desperate.” 

“Yet.” 

Jongdae makes a face at him, then looks exaggeratedly pensive. “Well, now that you mention it, maybe I _do_ have my eye on someone.” 

“It better not be me,” is Baekhyun’s flat reply. 

Jongdae grins. “Sweetheart, if it was you, you’d know.” He wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully. 

“What, because you’d be trying to kiss me? Oh wait.” 

Jongdae laughs. “No, no, that’s not how I pursue potential lovers. That’s how I annoy friends.”

“Well, I’m glad, because if you were interested in me of all people, I’d be very...concerned about your standards,” Baekhyun says. “ _Useless and broken_ is not exactly high on most people’s list of...ideal traits.” 

Jongdae reaches out to tickle him under the chin. “Aww, Baek. Don’t go there. If you weren’t unnervingly like me, I think I’d be interested.” 

Baekhyun snorts, then glances at Yixing again, who is peeking at them over his book in a way that looks like he’s trying and failing to be inconspicuous. Baekhyun raises his eyebrows at him, and Yixing smiles and pretends he’s very busy reading. 

Jongdae looks between them and grins, wiggling those eyebrows again. Baekhyun punches him. 

 

The following morning, Baekhyun wakes up to voices, but they’re not in his room. It takes him a few minutes to drag himself out of a half-asleep stupor, but when he does, he registers the voices as Yixing’s and Joonmyun’s, drifting through the crack in the door that connects their rooms. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He really doesn’t. Baekhyun has… _some_ manners. But when he hears his name, all bets are off. He’s officially part of the conversation. 

“I just don’t know how I feel about you getting so… _attached_ to Baekhyun, Yixing.”

“I understand that, Joon, and I appreciate your concern, but I _am_ an adult, you know. I can make my own decisions.”

“I am _aware_ , Xing. I just. How can this be healthy? He’s the...the enemy. We’ve literally been kidnapped and forced to heal him. We’re not allowed to leave this building, we’re being threatened with death if he doesn’t get better...you can’t tell me that’s not messed up.” Joonmyun’s voice is exasperated, a little wild, and Baekhyun swallows hard. Those are things he tries not to think about. Yixing told him to think healing thoughts. 

“You can hardly blame _Baekhyun_ for all of that. All he did was get injured.”

“Yeah, in an attack on _our community._ Trying to kill or capture _us._ ” Those are definitely not healing thoughts.

“It’s not like X-22 hasn’t done terrible things to _them._ Joon, we’re supposed to be neutral. We’re supposed to help everyone, because everyone is struggling with their own problems.”

“I think you take that a little too seriously. I think arguments can be made against people _holding us captive._ ” 

“Baekhyun’s not at fault for anything. We would gladly help soldiers from our own community, even if we don’t agree with their beliefs. And I’m sure Baekhyun is feeling pretty regretful about his time spent in the military now.”

“Yeah, because he got _blown up_. Not because he feels bad for ensuring our capture and...and _slavery._ ”

“He’s a good person, Joonmyun. You haven’t spent as much time with him as I have. He’s...I like him.” 

Something squirms pleasantly in Baekhyun’s chest.

Joonmyun’s responding sigh is audible even from where Baekhyun lies in his bed, ready to feign sleep if they were to walk into his room. “I know you do, Xing. And that’s why I’m worried.”

“Don’t be. I trust him.”

Baekhyun feels...warm. He covers his face with his blanket, smiles into it. He’s not sure how he feels about...the guilt part, and the slavery, and he’s sure he’ll have to sort that out in his head yet. But it’s nice to feel wanted, even when he’s a useless heap, broken brain and broken body. It’s nice to think that even like this, even when he can’t feed himself and needs to be doted on all day every day, even when he has mood swings and forgets words and cries daily, there are a couple people who care about him, who _like_ him, even despite the circumstances. It’s just nice. 

“You know I always have your back, right Xing?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Even when I think you’re making stupid decisions.”

Yixing’s laugh is soft, pleasant. “I know, Joon.”

Baekhyun drifts back to sleep still thinking about how nice Yixing is—his voice, his laugh, everything about him. What a nice, nice guy. 

Baekhyun wishes he were nice.

***

After several weeks of every worker the community could spare harvesting a sudden influx of ripe vegetables and preserving all the excess for the winter, X-22 decides to hold a small celebration. Everyone’s been working hard for months, everyone’s tired and worried, and the harvest was encouragingly bountiful. That isn’t to say they have food to spare—rations are getting smaller as the leaders become increasingly nervous—but it’s soothing to see so much food in their stores. There’s still enough time before the winter sets in, the Growers agree, to fit in another planting and growing season of fall crops. But for now, they feel accomplished. They want to enjoy the moment of peace before things get hectic again.

Minseok can’t say he doesn’t agree. He’s been working double and triple shifts for weeks—Building in the mornings, working with Jongin in the afternoons, often being given more work or watching Yejoo in the evenings. He’s been exhausted and under pressure. He looks forward to a bit of celebrating, to maybe forget the stress he and the rest of the community are constantly under. 

Of course, he’s not really involved in the planning or setup of the festival, so convincing Luhan he absolutely _has_ to attend is a little harder than expected. 

“But...what’s even happening? Is there going to be food?”

“I don’t know,” Minseok says, rolling his eyes. He and Jongin had taken the afternoon off, so he’s helping Luhan and the other Builders instead, because really, they need it. “I mean, it starts at suppertime, so of course there’ll be food. But I think just the normal amount? We don’t exactly have enough for a feast.”

“Then what’s so special about it?” Luhan asks, frowning. “We didn’t even get the day off.”

“Do you think we can _afford_ a day off?” Minseok rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I think it’ll just be, you know, festivities in the evening.”

“What kind of festivities, though?”

“Probably festive ones! I don’t know!” Minseok sighs. “It doesn’t matter, Lu. You’re part of the community, so you’re going to participate.”

“But I’m tired,” Luhan says with a childish pout. “And I’m not _really_ part of the community…”

“You’ve been here for over a month. Planning on leaving sometime soon?” Minseok lifts his eyebrows. 

Luhan goes a little stiff and awkward. “Well…” Minseok keeps staring until he wilts and says, “No, I guess not.”

“That’s what I thought,” Minseok says, even though he’s pretty sure the opposite is true. Luhan’s been antsy for days. Minseok is keeping an especially close eye on him, and hinting at complete lies in the meantime to keep him around. Not that he… _wants_ to keep him around, of course. He’s just trying to figure out what he’s up to. For such a terrible liar, Luhan’s not a bad secret-keeper. 

“But I’m not sure if I want to—”

“Lu _han_ ,” Minseok says exasperatedly. “You’re coming to the party. Who else would I talk to if you weren’t there? Do you ever see me talking to people other than you? No.”

“You have a sister,” Luhan hedges uncomfortably. “And that kid you hang around with sometimes...with the cute smile…”

“Who are you calling cute? You stay away from my Jonginnie,” Minseok says, shaking his finger at Luhan. “You may call me cute and no one else.”

Luhan gives him an odd, but only slightly flustered look. His cheeks are barely even pink. Minseok clearly has to step up his game. “Cute isn’t the first word I would use to describe you.”

Minseok grins. “Oh? What would the first word be, then? Go on, I’m ready.”

Before Luhan can answer, a strong hand pushes at Minseok’s head. “How about _narcissistic?_ Or maybe _spends too much time flirting on the job._ ” 

Minseok snorts, ducking away from Changmin’s touch. “Only on festival days.”

“More like every day, all the time,” Changmin fires back. “Focus on work, plenty of time for being cheeky later.”

Minseok waves him away, turns back to Luhan. The other man is very busily prying nails out of old, rotting boards—unsalvageable, and therefore to be used as fire fuel. “Anyway, Lu, my point is: you have to come. It’s non-negotiable. If you don’t come, I will literally drag you there myself.” He leans in close—close enough that Luhan looks up at him and swallows hard. “I’ll be lonely if you aren’t there. You wouldn’t want me to be lonely, would you?”

“If we run out of entertainment, we can get Minseok to put on a strip show,” Changmin says from his work spot. He glances up, smirks. “Unless those are only for private audiences.”

“No no, I don’t mind at all,” Minseok says, putting on a show of flexing, even though his biceps are covered by loose sleeves. “Beauty should be admired.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Luhan scoffs. His face is unnecessarily close to the wood in front of him. 

“Ahhh, the jealous type, huh? Pity.” Changmin grins. 

Minseok laughs, but decides, quite graciously, to let Luhan off easy. For now. (He does still want him to come to the party, after all.)

As it turns out, Luhan doesn’t really have a choice either way, because if he wants supper, he has to go to the community center, and that’s where the party is starting. And it’s...really an actual party. Minseok is really impressed. As expected, food portions aren’t significantly larger than usual, but it’s hot and well-seasoned, and everything’s been decorated with scraps of bright-coloured cloth and sprigs of green leaves and the odd flowering weed, and there’s _music._ Minseok hasn’t listened to music in years—the last of their speakers blew when he was twelve or thirteen. But this isn’t a recording playing on loop through frayed wires. This is people taking turns singing tunes they remember from their childhood; people using scrap wood and tin cups and utensils as instruments; people creating music out of the last remnants of joy they’ve managed to hold onto. 

Minseok feels proud of his community in that moment. They’ve managed to survive, and they’ve managed to find beauty in the midst of their struggle. 

Everything settles down as they all receive their meals and sit down to eat, and then flares up again as the entire community falls into enthusiastic chatter. Nothing has really changed, but everyone is smiling in the spirit of celebration. Groups intermingle, families pull close and hold tight, lovers embrace. People gesticulate wildly as they tell stories that others can’t possibly not already know. People laugh. 

After he finishes eating, Minseok quickly makes his rounds. He chats with his parents, talks to Seulgi, holds Yejoo. He makes sure Jongin isn’t alone—he’s not, that Sehun kid is with him, they look like they’re having fun. Then he finds Luhan again, partly to make sure he hasn’t run off while Minseok was distracted, but also just...because. 

Luhan seems much more relaxed by the time Minseok gets back to him, listening to the other Builders tell stories, making comments when pressed. Minseok stands back and watches him for a few seconds, watches him loose-limbed and smiling, getting along with Minseok’s community. The sun is just starting to set—the days are growing shorter—and gold streaks through Luhan’s hair and highlights his cheekbones. Minseok just watches. 

“Finished ogling yet?” calls a voice, and Minseok jumps a little—he hadn’t even realized anyone was looking at him. Amber grins from her spot at the edge of the Builders, brow quirking. Luhan turns to look at him, too, and Minseok laughs. 

“Come on, Lu,” he says, waving him over. “They’re gonna start a fire, and I want good seats.”

Luhan gets up easily, without even any complaints. They find spots to sit on the cracked concrete around a fairly small bonfire, which, once it burns down to coals, is filled with undersized potatoes from harvest to roast, one for everyone. They’re too hot to hold and too hot to eat, but Minseok and Luhan stuff theirs into their mouths anyway, laughing and puffing out steam as they burn their fingers and tongues. The sun continues its descent, and people start singing again as the sky turns brilliant shades of turquoise and magenta. Lovers and couples get up to dance around the community center, in between tables and around the smoking ashes, and Minseok figures he’s let Luhan rest for too long tonight. 

“Dance with me,” he says, standing and holding out a hand. 

“What?” Luhan stares up at him, eyes wide. 

“Who else am I supposed to dance with? Dance with me. It’ll be fun, and I like this song.”

“I don’t know it,” Luhan says, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“No one here knows how to dance,” Minseok laughs. “We’re all just making it up as we go. Come on, Lu, please?”

Luhan continues to look deflective, so Minseok reaches out, grabs his hand, and bodily drags him to his feet. 

“I forgot to tell you, I’m not actually taking no for an answer.” Minseok grins, pulling him away from the groups of people still sitting on the ground. He grabs Luhan’s other hand and starts swaying in time to the tune playing in the background. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Luhan says, cheeks pink. Minseok would do many embarrassing things to keep his cheeks pink like that. It’s endlessly entertaining. “Min _seok._ ” 

“You’re dancing! Do you want me to spin you?” Without waiting for an answer, he loops one hand around Luhan’s head to his back, but Luhan doesn’t actually turn, which means Minseok’s now nose-to-nose with him, hands attached. Luhan doesn’t move, staring. “You’re supposed to spin.”

Luhan jerks, then turns clumsily, and Minseok laughs. 

“Stop looking so miserable. Dancing is supposed to be fun.” Minseok holds onto his hands and shakes them both. “Or _romantic._ ” 

Luhan coughs uncomfortably, and Minseok laughs again. 

Okay, so maybe the whole party atmosphere has made Minseok a little giggly and dumb. It’s the same for everyone, acting silly and playing around on the rare occasion they’re encouraged not to be serious. Boa’s easing up on the lectures about how badly they need the Valley in order to survive; their divisional leaders aren’t telling them they’re going to have to work harder for things to be ready in time for winter. They’re taking a break from that, letting themselves go for one evening. Minseok is merely taking advantage of that. And plus, flustering Luhan has become one of Minseok’s greatest pastimes this past month. 

Which is why, when Luhan seems to relax into their inept dancing a little, Minseok leans in and says, “Have you ever had a girlfriend or boyfriend before, Lu?”

Luhan tenses up immediately, large brown eyes blinking. “W-what?”

“You know. A _special_ friend. I was just curious.” Minseok squeezes one of his hands teasingly, pairs it with an easy grin. “It’s okay if you haven’t.”

“I-I, I haven’t,” Luhan says, looking away, finding the sunset incredibly interesting. “The, uh, the life of a rogue isn’t very conducive to relationships.”

Minseok laughs. “What, were you a rogue inside your bunker, too?”

Luhan flushes. “Well, no.”

“Tell me about your first love, then,” Minseok says. He shimmies a little as the tune changes to something more upbeat, bounces in place. “Reveal your past, Oh Mysterious One. What was it like in old… _R-09._ ” 

Luhan’s throat bobs. “Oh, you remember which one I’m from?”

Minseok flashes him a cheeky smile. “I remember everything about you.”

“Right.” Luhan clears his throat. “Well, I mean. I don’t like to think about the past too much.”

Oh, he’s terrible. The way he twitches, the way he averts his eyes, the uncertainty in his voice. Worst on-the-spot liar Minseok has ever had the pleasure of knowing. “You’re an absolute joy, did you know that, Lu?” he says, watching the fading sun reflect in his eyes. 

“Why?” Luhan asks. His voice comes out like a croak. 

“Nothing. You just are.” Minseok’s smile softens without his consent, and he reaches up to ruffle Luhan’s hair, but it turns into more of running his fingers through untidy locks. Whatever. He’s tired, he’s in a good mood, he feels a little party-drunk. If that’s even a thing. “I’m glad you showed up in this community,” he says as the tune changes again and Minseok starts swaying slowly to match it. 

“Why?” Luhan asks again, just as confused as before. 

Minseok merely shrugs, taking a step closer to see if Luhan will back away. He doesn’t, and they keep dancing like that, rocking back and forth, almost chest to chest. Minseok has to tip his head up a little to meet Luhan’s eyes like this, but he doesn’t mind all that much. He does that, looks up at Luhan’s face for a moment, just to look. It’s become so familiar this past month—Minseok has spent so much time with him, has seen it morning, day, and night, has woken up to it every morning for weeks. It’s a nice face, a little boyish but handsome, soft around the edges. He’s blushing high in his cheeks, pink and bashful. 

Minseok leans in and kisses him there, right where his skin is warm and soft, lets his lips linger long enough to get a feel for it. When he pulls away, Luhan’s eyes are wide, and his blush is deeper. His mouth hangs open a little, and Minseok laughs and leans in to kiss that, too, fleeting but firmer than a brush. He can feel the rush of Luhan’s sudden inhale against his lips. 

“What are you doing?” Luhan asks, breathless. 

Minseok grins back. “I don’t know,” he says, because really, what _is_ he doing? “I like you.”

There’s a beat before Luhan incredulously asks, “ _Why?_ ” 

“You’re cute,” Minseok says immediately, shrugging. He doesn’t have to try hard to come up with reasons. “And I like being around you. You make me laugh. And you don’t think I’m weird.”

Luhan’s voice is just edging on shaky when he says, “I think you’re a little weird.”

Minseok has to laugh. Then, because he’s possibly lost his mind, he leans in again, ducks a little to kiss under Luhan’s chin so that he has to tip his head back and bare his throat, relishes in the little whimper Luhan makes. He wants to see if Luhan will stop him, but he feels no resistance. Nothing. Minseok isn’t interested in people who won’t stand up for themselves. He presses his lips to warm skin again, harder, against Luhan’s bobbing throat. He gives Luhan a second chance. “If you don’t like me, stop me,” he murmurs against his blush. 

Luhan is completely rigid, he’s noticeably thrumming with nerves, but all he says is, “I’m not stopping you.”

Minseok’s entire body buzzes as he’s hit with the implications of that. Luhan’s not stopping him. He’s not stopping him. 

Minseok doesn’t kiss him again. He keeps his smile fixed in place as he pulls away, and sees Luhan flushed and staring at him, still pressed close against Minseok’s front. There’s a lot of conflicting emotion in Luhan’s eyes, a lot of inner turmoil happening right beneath the surface, but he’s not pushing. He’s not stopping him. 

Minseok suddenly wants to kiss him again, hard, on the mouth. But he doesn’t. This is still...in the plan. He knows Luhan is only in X-22 for a reason, for some hidden motive. He knows Luhan can’t completely bail if he wants more (completely false) information from Minseok. Minseok, who’s doing this to test Luhan. To see if Luhan would stop him, or if he’d finally crack under new pressure. That’s all. 

“I think I need some air,” Luhan says as the song they’d been mindlessly swaying to comes to an end. He’s breathing a little too hard, obviously rattled. “I’ll, um. I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay,” Minseok says, finally letting him go. Luhan all but sprints away from him. 

“Ooooo, trouble in paradise?” Changmin asks from where he’s dancing nearby. 

Minseok forces himself to roll his eyes and shoot him the finger. This is still fine. Minseok just spooked him. He’ll be back. Everything is okay. Minseok’s not worried. Especially not about himself. 

(Minseok is a fantastic liar, but he’s not that good at lying to himself.)

***

Yifan slips away from Zitao’s camp the moment the younger man falls asleep—and Zitao always falls asleep early these days, is always tired. It’s just barely dusk, the sun having just set and the sky darkening by the minute, and Yifan hopes that’ll be cover enough as he jogs towards X-22. The closer he gets, the more clearly he can hear the music and laughter he’s been catching whispers of for the past few hours. He doesn’t know what’s going on within community borders, but he’s hoping it’s enough to distract them from the rogue creeping through the fields towards them.

Everything is still and quiet as Yifan makes his way towards the community, and he listens to the wind rustling through the plants in the fields, insects chirping and buzzing in the cool evening breeze. The music filtering through the buildings in the distance is sometimes familiar, and sometimes not. It makes Yifan think. X-22 obviously had some of the same music as Q-16 in their bunkers; their parents obviously sang the same tunes to them before bed, from generation to generation. The song playing now—soft words and a whistling tune—Yifan can remember his mother singing to him as a child. He can remember Chanyeol whistling it quietly as they played and worked side-by-side growing up. 

X-22 sings it now, loud and joyful. The enemy, singing the same tunes from Yifan’s own childhood. He imagines the soldiers he’s fought against in skirmish after skirmish as children, singing this song amongst themselves. He imagines them lying in their beds as their parents try to convince them to sleep. It makes something odd twist in his stomach. Yifan thought paranormals were different and bad, too. But then he met Zitao. 

“Hey, who’s over there?” calls out a gruff voice suddenly. 

Yifan jumps, holding up his hands defensively. A shadowy figure steps away from the building he had been leaning against in the distance, closer than Yifan had thought. He shouldn’t have let himself get distracted. He may be torn about X-22’s virtue, but they will still kill him. “I mean no harm,” he says quickly, trying not to breathe hard, guiltily. “I’m staying with Zitao, on the western border?” He prays that Zitao is really as friendly with the people of X-22 as he’s said in the past. 

The man—a patrol guard, Yifan assumes—grunts in acknowledgement. “Rogues don’t usually come in this close, allies or not,” he says, stern.

“Of course,” Yifan says. “I was just...curious, honestly. I could hear the music and everything. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on.”

The guard huffs. “Party,” he says. “Everyone’s there but me and the other guards on duty, I’m guessing.”

He sounds bitter—for good reason, Yifan supposes. “I won’t bother you, then,” he says quickly. Then, hopefully, “You don’t mind if I go in and take a peek, do you?” He points between the buildings on the edge of the community. “I recognize this song from my childhood.” He doesn’t, really, but he figures saying so will humanize him. 

The guard sighs. “I should probably discuss something like that with Boa, but…”

“But?” Yifan tries not to light up too much. 

“I’m sure she doesn’t want to be bothered, either.” The guard jerks his head in a beckoning gesture. “Come here, I’ll give you a quick pat down.”

Yifan thanks whatever deities may exist that he decided to leave his blaster where it’s been hidden in the bottom of his pack for weeks now. The guard pats him down, but finds very little. After all, Yifan really _was_ planning on just doing recon tonight. 

It’s been a month, and Luhan hasn’t come back. He’s probably _never_ coming back. It’s time for Yifan to step up and take things into his own hands. 

X-22 looks...very much like Q-16, Yifan learns quickly. Not the layout or anything, but just. It’s a community, a work in progress, like Yifan’s home. Collapsing and sloppily patched-up buildings, crumbling walkways, the odd crop-up of weeds in the cracks of the cement, the occasional garden where patches of grass once were. Empty lots where wooden houses used to stand, now dismantled to be used for other purposes. Old, patchwork machines salvaged from the bunker, hooked up to solar panels that are barely hanging on. It all looks so familiar, and Yifan yearns for home. 

The community is mostly barren, with all the noise coming from the epicenter, but occasionally Yifan will detect movement and duck out of the way, hiding behind dark buildings until the wanderers disappear. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for. It’s growing darker and all he can see are empty buildings in every direction. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing pointing to where his friends might be, or what might have happened to them. Everything just looks a lot like Q-16. Where would they hypothetically keep prisoners, if they had any?

Well, hell if Yifan knows. It’s not like they have an actual prison. They barely even have enough buildings in decent shape for people to live in. 

Yifan weaves his way closer and closer to the community centre, between buildings and along the edges of gardens, not really sure what he’s looking for, until he runs into a pile of scrap wood between two partly-deconstructed buildings, just like the ones Yifan always saw in Q-16. He’s about to turn around and go another way when he notices a head sticking out over the top of the pile, presumably attached to a body sitting on the other side. He winces, ready to turn around and disappear before whoever it is notices him. 

The guy must have already heard his approach, though, or otherwise have incredible instincts concerning people watching him, because a second later a voice says, “If that’s Minseok, leave me alone.”

Yifan freezes. “Luhan?”

The head turns, and Yifan just...stares. It’s really him. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s actually Luhan, looking just as stunned as Yifan feels. “Yifan?” 

“What the— Oh my god, _Luhan._ ” 

It’s a mad scramble from there, desperation on Yifan’s part and incredulity on Luhan’s, for them to embrace, rotting wood crumbling under Luhan’s feet as he scrambles down to meet Yifan on the ground. Yifan would be ashamed of the way he tears up, his arms wrapped tight around his friend’s shoulders, feeling the familiarity of him, but he can’t. He’s just so goddamn _relieved._

“You’re alive,” he breathes. Then, abruptly, he pulls away and punches Luhan hard in the arm. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried _sick_ about you.”

“Shhh, don’t speak so loudly.” Luhan looks around in a panic, draws Yifan into the nearest standing building. It’s dark inside, but a little light filters in through the gaping hole in the roof. “Yifan, listen, I’ve been trying to get back to you for _weeks._ But this place has seriously airtight security, I swear to god. And Minseok doesn’t let me out of his sight, like, _ever_. What are you doing here? It’s not safe for you to be here.” His voice is hushed, urgent. 

Yifan feels so overwhelmed. Luhan is here, he’s alive, he’s _okay_ , but also he’s saying a lot of things Yifan doesn’t understand. “Airtight security? I got in no problem. Also, who’s Minseok? And of course I’m here, I haven’t seen you in a _month._ ” 

“I thought maybe you’d gone back to Q-16 to wait for me. And security’s probably lax because we’re celebrating today. _They_ , I mean. They’re celebrating. And Minseok is…” If Yifan squints, it looks like maybe Luhan is _blushing._ “He’s my, uh, roommate. I guess. I’ve been living with him while I’m here.”

“I couldn’t go back to Q-16, I’m probably ex-communicated at this point. I came in to do...I don’t know, some recon or something. You’ve been gone for a month, Luhan, I thought they’d killed you, too.”

“Chanyeol’s not dead!” Luhan claps a hand over his mouth when his voice comes out too loud. “Listen, I’m slowly learning more stuff from Minseok. It’s taking a long time, because he is not super willing to tell me stuff, but he said they have living prisoners. Chanyeol’s probably one of them. I know they’re keeping them underground, Minseok’s one of the Builders working on security, I—I just need more time to figure out the details, I swear. I’m working on it.”

Yifan shakes his head. “Luhan, I don’t like you being in here alone—”

“It’s fine, Yifan, really. I’m fine. I’m really, _really_ sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you. I’ve tried, honestly. Have you been staying at our old camp this whole time?”

“No, I’m staying with another rogue west of here,” Yifan says. “I have food and shelter there, I’m fine there. But if you need me—”

“No, Yifan, don’t. I’m okay by myself. They...take care of me, here. Minseok takes care of me.” Luhan scratches his head, fidgets nervously. 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to—”

“I do have to. I’m getting close. I know it. Minseok is...I mean, I think he’ll tell me more. Trust me. Just give me more time. I really think Chanyeol is alive, and that he’s okay.”

“You think so?” Yifan almost doesn’t want to believe it. What if Luhan is wrong? Yifan will have to come to terms with having killed his best friend all over again. 

“I do.” Luhan levels him with a steady look. “Yifan, these people...I know you hate them. I know they took Chanyeol, and that they’re our...our enemies, or whatever. But I don’t think they’re bad people.”

Yifan exhales slowly. “Looks can be deceiving,” he says. Zitao doesn’t think he’s a bad person, either. 

“I’ve been living with them for a month. They’re not bad people.” Luhan’s eyes are wide, earnest. “They’re just trying to survive.”

“Don’t let yourself get attached, Luhan. We’re still fighting them. Don’t you think they’ll kill you if they find out who you really are?”

Luhan stares at him, blinking slowly. “Q-16 is fighting them,” he says. “Are we Q-16, Yifan?”

Yifan swallows. “Aren’t we?”

“I don’t know.” Luhan shakes his head. “I don’t know anymore. I’m just here for Chanyeol.”

“If we’re not Q-16, what are we?” Yifan asks. 

“Humans?” Luhan looks around. “We’re humans, trying to survive, trying to help the people we love. Aren’t we all?”

Yifan lets his breath hiss out through his teeth. “Luhan, this isn’t the time to start doubting everything we know. We need to focus.”

Luhan looks torn, but eventually he nods. “Chanyeol.”

“We’re here for Chanyeol,” Yifan agrees. “Don’t forget that. They took him, and we’re here to get him back.”

“Okay.” Luhan takes a deep breath. “You need to go, though. If they find me with you...I won’t be able to think of an excuse. I’ve already had to lie so much.”

“Yeah,” Yifan whispers, wincing. 

“Go. I know where you are now—you know I’m alive and working on it. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” Luhan hugs him again, hard and fierce. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Yeah.” Yifan takes another long look at him. “You too.”

He walks back to Zitao’s camp in a daze. Luhan’s alive. He thinks _Chanyeol’s_ alive. Yifan hasn’t killed anyone. Yet. 

Zitao is awake and sitting up in the tent when Yifan returns, which isn’t really surprising. The evening had been going too well—Yifan isn’t _that_ lucky. 

“Where were you?” Zitao asks, looking small and scared sitting there on the floor. “I woke up and you were gone. I thought you were really gone this time.”

Yifan toes off his shoes and sits down next to him, looping an arm around Zitao’s shoulders. “I would never leave without telling you.”

“I thought maybe my pep talk the other day might have inspired you to just leave suddenly,” Zitao says, laughing a little, but still sounding sad. 

“It definitely inspired me,” Yifan says. “But not to be cruel.”

“I still want you to find your family. Don’t stay just for me,” Zitao says. “Okay? I want you to be happy.”

Yifan sighs. “Don’t worry about me, alright?”

“Worrying about you keeps me from worrying about myself.” Zitao flashes him a small smile in the dim light. 

Yifan squeezes his shoulders. He’s so tired of lying all the time. He wishes he could just come clean, as Zitao had, but how can he be honest? He can’t bear to do that to Zitao. And he’s too much of a coward besides. He’s still working on being better. 

But tonight is a good night. He wants to keep it good. His friends aren’t dead. Not all has been lost. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’ll leave when I feel like it’s the right time. And I’ll definitely warn you ahead of time when that happens.”

“Alright.” Zitao smiles up at him. “Where did you go, before?”

“Just for a walk. It’s a nice night. X-22 is partying.”

Zitao chuckles. “We should celebrate too, then.”

“Celebrate what?”

Zitao shrugs. “Finding each other?” he offers shyly. “You’re important to me, you know. I’m really grateful for what you’ve done for me.”

Yifan smiles back, ruffling Zitao’s hair. “Same here.”

“Then let’s party?”

Yifan laughs. “Let’s party.”

They crack open a watermelon from Zitao’s garden, right then in the middle of the night, and sit on the grass outside the tent listening to the faint strains of music. It’s a nice night, clear and bright and cool. Yifan feels really lucky to have the people around him. 

That doesn’t stop him from feeling a pit in his gut every time Zitao tells him he’s thankful for Yifan. He doesn’t know the truth. But it’s for the best. Yifan can only hope saving Chanyeol will make up for all the guilt he’s starting to amass in the midst of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	14. Chapter 14

On the night of the harvest celebration, for the first time in a month and a half, Kyungsoo is given the evening off so that he can partake in the festivities. And he’s grateful, he really is. He hasn’t been able to spend a lot of time with his friends and family in ages. It’s nice to sit down with everyone for supper, to talk to people, to laugh and listen to music and relax for a while. He hangs out with Seulgi, which hasn’t happened in a long time, and he chats with his parents, which hasn’t happened in even longer. He sits down with Sehun and Jongin, gets to know the paranormal boy a little outside of the context of Jongin berating him for not taking better care of Chanyeol. He’s a sweet kid, and Sehun seems to really like him, so Kyungsoo is happy. 

Jongin gets a little thank you from the community, actually, along with Minseok. Boa stands up at the edge of the community center and singles them out, thanks them for aiding in the growing process when Joonmyun and Yixing were not able. The majority of the community still seems iffy about the whole paranormal thing, uncomfortable and uncertain, but they all clap and cheer, and Jongin blushes as Minseok ruffles his hair. It’s cute. Sehun whoops right in Kyungsoo’s ear. 

But as the evening wears on, Kyungsoo grows increasingly restless and antsy. He’s not used to spending evenings off duty. The party continues into the night, but Kyungsoo’s heart isn’t in it. He was only told when he woke up for work that Joohyun would be taking over part of his evening shift so that he could spend some time celebrating, which means he couldn’t tell Chanyeol in advance. All evening, it’s been at the back of his mind. What if Joohyun didn’t let him know? What if he thinks Kyungsoo is abandoning him? 

What if he’s lonely?

“Hey, Sehun,” he says, nudging his brother’s arm. “I’m gonna go take over Joohyun’s shift, okay?”

Sehun turns away from his conversation with Jongin to pout. “But you don’t have to go until midnight. You have hours left still.”

“Yeah, but she’s working and Seulgi is here. Wouldn’t that be depressing? She should be with her partner.” Kyungsoo shrugs, tries to sell it with a smile as he pushes himself to his feet. “I’ve had my fun. Now she can have hers.”

Sehun sighs, but nods. “I guess.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, or when I wake up,” Kyungsoo says, scratching Sehun’s scalp lightly. He nods towards Jongin. “Have a nice night.”

“We will,” Jongin says, looking flustered as usual whenever anyone pays any attention to him. “Say hi to—” he pauses, looks around, lowers his voice, “—Chanyeol for me.” 

Kyungsoo snorts. It’s a good thing no one’s bothering to listen to their conversation, because Jongin isn’t subtle at all. “Will do. See you two.” He reaches out, pats Jongin’s head as well, then picks his way through the crowd and out of the community center, saying his goodnights to people he’s close with as he passes by them. 

As he makes his way through the community towards Chanyeol’s workshop ( _prison_ , he has to remind himself bitterly), Kyungsoo feels his eagerness to see him rise. The community center had been bursting with life and laughter, but the rest of the community is dark and empty, silent except for the lingering sounds of music and chatter. He imagines Chanyeol sitting alone in the dark, listening at his door, and he starts walking faster. 

Joohyun is leaning against the wall just outside the door, looking tired and miserable, and Kyungsoo smiles slightly. He really does feel bad for her, too, so he gets great pleasure from sneaking up on her and whispering, “Your beloved awaits you.”

Joohyun flails in surprise, then spots him and beams. “Oh my god! Thank you so much. You’re the best. You are my _favourite._ ” 

“Go, people are still dancing. Seulgi’s pining.” 

Joohyun hugs him briefly, slaps the key into his hands, then literally takes off running in the direction Kyungsoo had come from. Kyungsoo snorts as he watches her go, then approaches the door with just a little hesitation. “Chanyeol…?”

There’s a rustle from within the darkness—Chanyeol’s lamp isn’t on—and then a voice croaks, “Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo smiles slightly. “Were you asleep? And here I thought you might be missing me…”

“Kyungsoo, oh my _god._ ” The rustling intensifies, and Kyungsoo winces, thinking about Chanyeol’s poor healing leg. “Where were you? It started getting late and you didn’t bring my supper and—”

“Hey, shhh,” Kyungsoo soothes, unlocking the door and letting himself in. “Where are you? Where’s your light?”

There’s a brief scuffle, and the light clicks on, dim and yellow and illuminating Chanyeol’s dirty, somewhat sunken cheeks, his tired, wide eyes. He looks up at Kyungsoo from the floor, almost disbelieving. “Where were you?” he asks, and his voice is raspy, as if this is the first time he’s used it all day. 

Kyungsoo swallows hard as he sits down on the floor across from him. “My shift started late because of the party, they didn’t give me the chance to tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, blinking exhaustion from his eyes as he says, “No, no, it’s okay. I’m just...happy to see you.” He fidgets constantly where he sits, fiddles with his bandages, scratches his head, rubs his arm with the opposite hand—his good hand. Kyungsoo wants to reach out and hold him still, hold onto him until he relaxes. 

“I wish I had thought to bring you something to eat.” Kyungsoo sighs heavily. “There were roasted potatoes, but they were all gone. Still, I could have brought you something else. Some friend I am.”

Chanyeol stares at him for a long, silent moment, and then he seems to snap out of it and says, “What were you celebrating?”

“Hm? Oh, the harvest. It’s not the end of the growing season yet, but the Growers just finished harvesting and preserving a lot of stuff, so the community decided to have a little party. It was nice. There was music, and everyone got to enjoy their evening.” Kyungsoo smiles, leans back on his hands. He feels like Chanyeol needs more opportunities to hear casual conversation in his life. Still, it seems unfair to talk about what a nice day he’d been having when Chanyeol has been stuck here, all alone. “How are you feeling today? How’s progress?”

“I’m alright. Progress is alright. I opened a new compartment in the puzzle box by accident.” Chanyeol seems more interested in staring at Kyungsoo like he’s a ghost than talking. 

“Oh yeah? You’re alright?” Kyungsoo holds out his hand. “Let me see that battle wound.”

Chanyeol places his hand in Kyungsoo’s without argument and without taking his eyes off his face. “It’s getting better. I can use it for holding things as long as I don’t have to grip too hard. Infection’s gone away, I think.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Kyungsoo says, peeling off his bandages. “These are filthy. Didn’t Joohyun bring you fresh ones?”

Chanyeol squirms. “She did. But I didn’t put them on yet.”

“No?” Kyungsoo looks up into his face. “Should I do it?”

Chanyeol nods, chewing on his lip, so Kyungsoo moves away to pick up the clean strips of cloth to bind Chanyeol’s wound. 

“This is definitely looking better,” he comments as the old bandages fall away. He pokes at the skin around the scab, wincing apologetically when Chanyeol hisses through his teeth. The infection does indeed seem to be gone, at least for now, and the inflammation has gone down, and the skin is beginning to knit back together. Kyungsoo feels relieved, running the pad of his thumb along the unbroken skin next to the cut. He chuckles a little when Chanyeol shivers in response—his touch is probably ticklish. “Keep this as clean as possible, alright?” he says as he wraps the new bandages around it. “Ask for more water if you have to. I don’t want it to get re-infected.” 

Chanyeol is staring at him again. Kyungsoo’s kind of just gotten used to it. “Okay,” he says obediently.

“Did you have an alright day?” Kyungsoo asks eventually, after he’s done with Chanyeol’s hand and has let him retract it. “You know, just...in general?”

Chanyeol shrugs. “It was the same as always.”

Kyungsoo smiles up at him ruefully, opens his mouth to say something, then stops as he notices something dark on Chanyeol’s temple. “Is that blood? What happened?”

“What?” Chanyeol stares at him, confused. “Where?”

“Here.” Kyungsoo leans in, reaches out to place a hand on Chanyeol’s cheek to tilt his face to the side to get a better look. At his sudden touch, Chanyeol inhales sharply, and his hand flies to his face. Kyungsoo begins to jerk away, thinking he’s done something wrong, but to his surprise Chanyeol’s hand lands on top of his, pressing it to his skin. 

For a moment, everything is very still and silent. Chanyeol’s eyes are round, stunned, and Kyungsoo thinks his probably match. “Sorry,” Chanyeol says dumbly, but he doesn’t move his hand. His fingers tighten briefly around Kyungsoo’s—reflexively—and then relax. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Kyungsoo says softly, and Chanyeol’s hand falls away. The back of Kyungsoo’s feels cool with the sudden loss. He moves his fingers slowly to rub at the dried blood on Chanyeol’s temple. “What happened…?”

“What?” Chanyeol looks like he doesn’t even remember what they’d been talking about for a few seconds. “Oh. I think I nicked it on one of the blades. I was under there...well. Fixing.”

Kyungsoo clucks his tongue in a way that strikes him afterwards as unnervingly matronly. “You should be more careful. You have enough things working against you. You don’t need more injuries.”

Chanyeol’s lips twitch. “I’m always getting myself hurt. I’m a walking hazard.”

Kyungsoo has to chuckle at that. He pulls his hand away from Chanyeol’s face and sees Chanyeol’s fingers flex in his lap in reaction. “I’m glad you’re making jokes again. It’s more like you.”

“I knew you liked my jokes.” Chanyeol’s smile grows slightly. 

“I never said I liked them. I said I liked that you were making them. It’s different.” Kyungsoo grins. “Things have been really hard for you recently. I’m glad they’re looking up a little.”

Chanyeol looks at the ground, hunches his shoulders. “They’re still hard for me.”

“I know.” Kyungsoo swallows thickly. “I hope I’ve been helping at least a little.”

Chanyeol looks up at him sharply. “Kyungsoo. You’ve been— You’ve _saved_ me.”

His earnest appreciation isn’t as gratifying as Kyungsoo might have thought. Sometimes, it just makes him feel worse. “I’m doing what I can,” he says. “You know that, right? I’m doing everything I can.”

“You are?” Chanyeol asks. 

It’s an innocent enough question. Chanyeol is alone, he’s scared, he’s desperate. He wants to think someone’s watching out for him. He wants reassurance. 

But it still hurts. It reminds Kyungsoo of everything he _can’t_ do for Chanyeol. “Everything that won’t get you killed and me kicked out of the community,” he says, because he does want to be honest. “I swear.”

Chanyeol smiles, sweet and grateful, and it makes Kyungsoo’s heart clench. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.”

Kyungsoo has to look away. “If you ever need something, ask me, okay?”

Silence hangs between them, and Kyungsoo forces himself to look back up at Chanyeol. He’s staring again, eyes unblinking in the yellow glow of the lamp, vibrating with pent-up energy. He’s clearly holding something back. 

“What?” Kyungsoo asks, concerned. “What is it?”

Chanyeol’s throat bobs. “Kyungsoo, could you—” He stops, takes a deep breath. “Could you hold my hand?”

“What?” Now it’s Kyungsoo turn to stare. 

Chanyeol laughs a little, embarrassed and self-deprecating, and he ducks his head. “It’s stupid,” he mutters. “But I think I’ll go crazy if nobody holds my goddamn hand. Just one time. Just for...for five minutes.”

Kyungsoo’s chest hurts, like someone’s squeezing his ribs in a vice. Without speaking—what can he say?—he holds out his hand, waits for Chanyeol to notice it. When he does, he looks up with shocked eyes, disbelieving but hopeful. Kyungsoo forces a smile, nods towards it. “Are you going to hold it or what?”

Chanyeol’s good hand is shooting out in a split second, fingers linking with Kyungsoo’s, folding them together. His palm is warm—Chanyeol is _always_ warm—and his hand is much larger than Kyungsoo’s, much rougher, but they fit together just fine. Kyungsoo squeezes it instinctively. 

Chanyeol looks like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t, smiling shakily instead. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

“Chanyeol, this is honestly the least I can do,” Kyungsoo says past a brand new lump in his throat. He forces a joking tone. “Just don’t let the people in charge see.”

“Should we turn this off, then?” Without letting go, Chanyeol reaches out with one long arm, switches off the lamp so that they fall into darkness again. 

Kyungsoo chuckles. “Seems a little weird, holding hands in the dark, but alright, if you want.”

Chanyeol sighs. “It’s super weird, isn’t it.”

“Of course it is.” Kyungsoo laughs, squeezes his hand again. “But who cares? I mean, all of my superiors definitely would, but we just won’t tell them.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Chanyeol says, sounding miserable. 

“Chanyeol, it’s fine. I really don’t mind.” Kyungsoo searches the dark for his face. “Do you want to sit closer to the door, where there’s a little moonlight?”

Chanyeol does, so they maneuver over that way, stumbling and crawling as necessary. They sit down on the pavement in front of the barred door, where the darkness is a little less absolute. Here, as his eyes adjust, Kyungsoo can see Chanyeol’s face, the way he looks at Kyungsoo and at their joined hands. His grip hasn’t loosened for even a second. 

Kyungsoo looks away, looks out the door at the sky above them. “Beautiful night,” he says quietly, pretending not to feel the way Chanyeol’s hand trembles ever so slightly. “So many stars out.”

Chanyeol hums in agreement, but Kyungsoo doesn’t know if he’s actually looking. 

“Tell me about your plant,” Kyungsoo says. “The one that grew from the seed I gave you.”

“You want to hear about that?”

Kyungsoo shrugs. “Yeah. I’m curious. What does it look like? How fast did it grow? You know I stole that seed, right?”

“What?” Kyungsoo only notices Chanyeol’s thumb had been mindlessly stroking the back of his hand when he stops. 

“Yeah. Back then, during the first surfacing, my mom was a scavenger, and I went with. Found that seed in some clothes we found at an abandoned camp—someone who had already went back underground, I guess. I stole the seed when she wasn’t looking and gave it to you.” Kyungsoo smiles at the memory. “I was bad at following rules even back then, I guess.”

“I’ve been raising a stolen plant all this time…” Chanyeol mutters. 

Kyungsoo laughs quietly. “I guess so. It was a nice gift, though, right?”

Chanyeol hums his agreement. “It’s a she, actually.”

“A she?” Kyungsoo looks at him, isn’t surprised to see Chanyeol staring back. “It’s a girl plant?”

Chanyeol smiles. “Well, I say so.”

It pulls a snort out of Kyungsoo. “Alright then. What does _she_ look like?”

“Last I saw? Stalky. Leafy. Green. I wonder if Yifan’s pruning her?”

“Who’s Yifan?”

Chanyeol sighs. “My friend. I told him to look after the plant if...anything happened to me. I hope he is.”

Kyungsoo squeezes his hand tight. “I’m sure he is.”

Chanyeol just shrugs, looking morose.

With a sigh, Kyungsoo nudges him, nods up at the sky. “Almost full moon,” he says. “Work anymore on that story about the werewolf and his dog?”

“Constantly,” Chanyeol replies immediately—Kyungsoo assumes it’s a lie. “You’re speaking to Earth’s first post-apocalyptic author right here. I refuse to give up that title.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’re not going to wait until it’s finished? I don’t want to spoil the ending.”

Kyungsoo smiles. “It’s not spoiling if you tell me the whole story, right here.”

Chanyeol hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Kyungsoo adjusts his grip on Chanyeol’s hand, makes himself comfortable. “I’ve got all night.”

When he looks at Chanyeol, it’s to see a smile that’s bright even in the darkness. “Alright. Bear with me, it’s the first draft.”

Chanyeol falls asleep in the middle of a sentence, his fingers still interlocked with Kyungsoo’s. It’s probably bad—probably _very_ bad—but Kyungsoo doesn’t feel all that much like letting go.

***

In general, Jongin’s days go like this: wake up, eat breakfast with Sehun, spend the morning alternatingly practicing his control and resting, eat lunch with Sehun, spend the afternoon practicing and/or actively working in the fields with Minseok, eat supper with Sehun, and then hang out with Sehun or work some more with Minseok in the evening. Occasionally, of course, this routine differs. Some days Minseok comes at different times, depending on his own work schedule. Some days Jongin isn’t up in time to eat breakfast with everyone else. Sometimes Sehun is late to lunch. Recently he’s been working in the evenings as well, replanting the fields. But for the most part, Jongin knows what to expect of his day.

He does not expect things like Sehun showing up at his house in the late morning, looking oddly ashen and embarrassed, to ask if he wants to hang out for a little while. 

“What are you doing here?” Jongin asks in surprise. “I thought the Growers were, you know, really really busy. Like, frantic.” Sehun had been groaning at breakfast in the morning, his feet and back still sore from the previous day’s work.

“Oh, yeah, they are,” Sehun says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Something’s not right about the energy coming off of him—something’s cold-sour, sickly-sour. Jongin’s felt it before, but never this strongly. “I wasn’t feeling well, though, so they sent me home to rest…”

“You’re sick?” Jongin clambers to his feet immediately, concerned. “What’s wrong? Do you need to lie down?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine, really.” Sehun gives a weak smile. “Just, um. I just wanted to maybe. Hang out a while.”

Jongin frowns, taking a step closer. “Sehun, you’re putting out all sorts of pain and anxiety signals. What’s going on?” He reaches out mentally, just a little. “Your head’s bad. Headache?”

Sehun looks away, running a hand through his hair, rubbing his palm over his forehead self-consciously. “It’s nothing…”

“It’s obviously not nothing if they sent you home early for it.” Jongin ducks his head, squinting. “Is that dirt on your chin or a bruise?”

Sehun chews on his lip. “Probably both?”

Horror courses through Jongin’s body. “Did someone _hit_ you?”

“No! Of course not.” Sehun hesitates, then sighs. “I just. I had another seizure.”

“Another...what?” Jongin blinks dumbly at him. 

Sehun’s face crumples slightly. “Can we sit down? I’m really tired.”

“Of course, god, sorry. Here, come sit on my bed.”

Once they’re seated and comfortable, Jongin watches in silence as Sehun draws slow, deep breaths, obviously trying to relax himself. He’s tense and nervous and clearly trying not to show how upset he is, and Jongin feels bad for being part of the cause of that, but he really wants to know what’s going on. The closer Sehun is to him, the more strongly Jongin can feel all the bad things coursing through his body. Most of it is concentrated in his head, but his whole body thrums with negative feelings, aches and pains and fear and misery. “Sehun, what’s wrong?”

Sehun lets out a slow breath. “It’s just. When I was a kid—really young—during the first resurfacing—I got really really sick. I don’t know if it was the plague or something similar. My parents both died from the plague, so it was probably that. Anyway, the infection spread to my brain, I guess. I got better...obviously...but there was scarring in my brain. When I was sick, I had really bad seizures. And even after I got better, I kept having them. Really bad when I was young, but as I grew up they went away. And I...I hadn’t had any in a long time. The first time I had a seizure in years was during that first battle as a soldier. I guess it was triggered by all the stress? I don’t handle stress well.” Sehun’s face is red, embarrassed, and he rubs his arm over his eyes. “So I got transferred to Growing duty. And that was fine. But whenever things get really hectic and I have to work all day and don’t sleep enough, I just...my brain can’t handle it, or something. This is the second time it’s happened.” He flushes, looking ashamed. 

Jongin stares at him in shock. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I don’t really like to tell people,” Sehun mutters, staring at the ground. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s embarrassing that something you had no control over is now giving you seizures?” Jongin asks, incredulous. 

Sehun just shrugs. “I’m weak. And pitiful. People don’t like talking about it, either, because we barely know anything about it and there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. When I have a seizure they just send me home so they don’t have to deal with it.”

Jongin lets out a slow breath. “Can I look at your head?”

“What?” Sehun gives him an odd look. 

“Well, I mean, not _actually_ look, but. You know, I can sense energies and...stuff. Do you mind if I look into your head a little? I want to see what I can figure out about it.”

Sehun looks momentarily wary, which makes Jongin feel even more pleased when he eventually says, “Yeah, sure.” Sehun trusts him, so much that he doesn’t even ask questions. That means a lot to Jongin. 

“Put your head in my lap,” Jongin requests, shifting so that Sehun can stretch out along his bed. When he does, Jongin rests his palms on Sehun’s skull and closes his eyes, concentrating. When there are a lot of signals coming off a person, it can be hard to differentiate between them, but like this, so close to Sehun’s brain, it’s almost overwhelming. 

In his mind’s eye, there’s cold, black matter in patches in Sehun’s brain. There’s lots and lots of other energy, too. So much happens in the brain—it’s no wonder. He can feel all the anxiety, the exhaustion, the frustration, the embarrassment. But the sickness—that stands out. Jongin can pinpoint where it’s coming from easily, could probably trace the scarring in his brain because bad feelings virtually radiate from it. It’s likely only this strong because Sehun just had a seizure. Jongin’s definitely never felt this around him before, not like this. Right now, Sehun feels sick. Like the infection never truly went away, like remnants of it still lingered, the way energy lingers in pockets under the dead earth. 

Jongin feels it. It’s black, vicious, bitter. It wants to choke out life. Good energy is always fighting back, though. Jongin knows this. It can’t always win, but it’s strong in Sehun. It doesn’t let the sickness spread. When Sehun is tired, when he’s weak and overworked and stressed out, the good energy inside him can’t work at optimum power, can’t stop the sickness from playing tricks with his brain. But as he rests, the good energy takes over again, tries its best to heal him. But it hasn’t healed completely, in all these years. The sickness is rooted deep, stubborn.

It feels so tangible in Jongin’s mind, though, like a mass of black matter nestled inside Sehun’s brain. He feels like he could reach out, draw it out, let it flow into him. But it’s so cold. So cruel. He’s scared, but at the same time eager. He’s never done anything like this before. But he wonders if he should try. 

“I need to get Minseok,” he says. “Sehun, do you want to fix this permanently?”

“What? I don’t know if that’s possible, Jongin…”

Jongin stares down at him, his gaze hard. “I don’t know, either, but I think it’s a good idea to find out.”

Sehun’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Well. Okay.”

Jongin grins.

 

It takes Jongin a while to convince Minseok to agree to his plan. “Jongin, are you crazy? Do you remember when we destroyed a whole garden trying something new?” He’s whispering fiercely, glancing over his shoulder at his fellow Builders, who are working maybe ten meters away. Not that they’d be able to hear Minseok and Jongin over the sound of their hammering. 

“This is different!” Jongin spots Minseok’s friend Luhan glancing their way, but puts him out of his mind for the time being. Minseok always tells him to stay away from Luhan anyway. “This is...it’s different, Minseok. And we’ve learned a lot of stuff! We’re good now!”

“We’re not _good._ We _think_ we’re helping plants grow. And neither of us cries anymore. Are you sure that’s good enough to _heal a person?_ ” 

“Can’t we just try it, Minseok?” Jongin asks pitifully. “How are we supposed to get better if we don’t try new things?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t try new things on a _person,_ ” Minseok says with a roll of his eyes. “I know you’d like to help your little friend—”

Jongin’s chest goes tight and hot with anger. “Don’t you _dare_ belittle him, Minseok. He is a _person._ He is my _friend_ , and if you haven’t noticed, I don’t really have a lot of those. And he is _struggling_ , okay? He’s upset and hurting and I want to help him because I _know_ I can. We can. Together. If you would just _try_.” 

Minseok stares at him, taken aback, and then he smiles a little. “Look at you, all grown up and fighting for the greater good.”

Jongin tries to scowl through a helpless twitch of his lips. “Not funny, Minseok.”

“A little funny. Fine, fine, I’ll give it a go. But if someone gets hurt, I am _not_ taking responsibility. Okay?” He lifts his eyebrows. 

“Alright. I’ll see you after lunch.”

Minseok grins, ruffles his hair roughly, and then walks back to his spot to continue working. 

Sehun’s waiting a little way off, twisting his hands together nervously. “What’d he say? You looked mad.”

“He said he’ll do it,” Jongin says, beaming. He reaches out, takes Sehun’s hand. “Come on, you can rest until lunchtime. Just relax, okay? It’ll be fine.”

 

It’s, well. It’s not really fine. Jongin tries his very best, he really does. He has Sehun sit between Minseok and himself on the floor of his house, and he goes through his theories quickly. “Okay, first we’re going to try the normal way of doing this, the same way we deal with plants. Push good energy in, to promote healing. If that doesn’t work… This stuff, it feels a lot like raw energy, except, you know, way worse. It’s pretty strong, but there’s not too much of it. So I’m going to try to draw it into myself the same way I do with normal energy, and I’ll pass it into Minseok, and Minseok will...turn it into something tangible so I can push it away. I guess. If I don’t have Minseok change it, it’ll just flow back to its natural state, which is inside your brain. That’s what I’m guessing, at least.” He tries to smile encouragingly. 

“That’s a lot of guesses, Jongin,” Sehun says nervously. 

Jongin flaps his hand. “Nothing bad will happen,” he says, coming off as _much_ more confident than he feels. But that’s okay. That’s good. He doesn’t want anyone to be nervous. That’ll just distract him, and make it _more_ likely that something bad _will_ happen. But it won’t.

“So, the same old?” Minseok asks. He looks wary, but vaguely intrigued. The possible uses for this ability, if they can figure it out, are undoubtedly not lost on him. 

“For now,” Jongin affirms with a nod. 

So they try it, and it’s a complete flop. Jongin tries his hardest to feed just the right amount of energy into Minseok, so that it’s not overwhelming but still pushing him. Minseok’s face twists up in concentration as he transforms it, and Jongin can feel when it clicks, can feel the rightness of it when the healing energy flows back into his body. He pushes it into Sehun, directly into his head, targeting the black spots of sickness. But it’s useless. It’s too weak, it’s not nearly enough. Jongin feels like they’d need a dozen sorcerer-conjurer pairs working at the same time to make a dent in it, and even then, maybe it would be impossible. The black matter is solid, strong, resilient. It fights. 

“Okay,” he gasps, coming out of it. “So that’s a no-go.”

“Yeah,” Minseok agrees, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. Jongin knows the level of concentration needed for the task always gives him a headache. It does to Jongin, too, but he’s used to it. 

“So it won’t work?” Sehun asks. He looks stunned, a little scared, but unscathed. Jongin is...really proud, actually. Of Minseok and himself. 

“Not this way,” Jongin says. “So we’re going to try the other way.”

And this is the scary part. This is something Jongin has never tried before, has never dared to attempt. The sickness in Sehun’s brain feels so dangerous, so cruel, and Jongin is going to have to reach out, draw that into his own body. He doesn’t _think_ it’ll affect him. But how should he know? No one ever told him about this, never taught him what to do in these circumstances. 

Drawing a deep breath, he reaches out, wary and uncertain. He feels the sickness, the black energy, and carefully, he opens the channels to let it flow into him. 

In a split second, it’s flooding into him, _painfully_ , and Jongin yelps, immediately overwhelmed. This sickness is not like the energy under the ground. It’s vicious, it actively wants to _hurt_ , to _take over_. Jongin gasps as it fills his body, all-consuming and destructive. 

And then, without trying, energy from the ground starts to flow into him to meet it, like an automatic reaction—good trying its best to fight against evil. A natural counterbalance, a battle happening inside Jongin’s body. Both energies build and build, until Jongin feels like he’s going to explode—neither can win, not like this, so they’re just growing inside him, too large for his body to handle. 

Not knowing what else he can possibly do, Jongin starts to push both into Minseok’s body, the slowest, steadiest stream he can manage—it’s still too much in his panicked state. Minseok swears loudly, says something, but Jongin can’t hear him over the rushing in his ears. “Do something!” he yells. “Do something with them!”

At the edge of his consciousness, Jongin can feel Minseok transforming the energies—can feel Minseok forcing the black energy into a condensed mass, wrapping the raw energy around it in the form of something healing. Still, neither can win, but it feels like he’s locking the bad energy away. When it starts to slip back into Jongin’s body, it feels manageable, like the healing energy is a barrier between himself and the sickness, like a cloth wrapped around a fire-hot handle. 

But the barrier is too weak, too patchy, and Jongin is too overwhelmed to hold onto it anyway, wracked with pain and panic. Minseok is obviously struggling as well, swearing in a steady stream as he tries to deal with all the energy Jongin is pushing into him, and they can’t hold it. Jongin lets go abruptly, cuts off all channels, forces all the energy in his body out with the last of his strength. He collapses onto his back, gasping for breath, and vaguely hears Minseok in the background hissing, “Holy _shit._ ” 

“Guys?” comes Sehun’s voice, thin and nervous. “What happened?”

Honestly, Jongin doesn’t really feel up to talking right now. He feels wrung out and exhausted beyond belief, and his body throbs with residual pain, and he won’t lie and say that whole ordeal didn’t freak him out a little. But Sehun is scared, and he deserves an explanation. “It didn’t work,” he says, his tongue clumsy as he forms the words without opening his eyes or sitting up. “It was too much.”

“So you can’t fix it?” Sehun asks. 

Minseok groans quietly. “Honestly, this is about how badly our first attempt at doubles voodoo went, too.” Jongin hears him shifting. “Was that normal, Jongin?”

“I don’t know,” Jongin says hazily. “I never saw anyone try it before.”

Minseok sighs. “We barely got any formal training before...well.” He’s talking to Sehun again. “So we have no clue what we’re doing or if this is possible. Maybe this is just some next level shit and we’re not capable of handling it yet.”

Jongin swallows thickly, finally manages to drag himself upright. Sehun is sitting on the floor between them, his face pale. “It seemed possible, though,” he says. “It was too much for us this time, but it still feels like something we _could_ do. Don’t you think, Minseok?”

Minseok is lying on his back, too, but he slowly sits up to look at him wearily. “Honestly? Yeah. It doesn’t feel out of the realm of possibility. No more than anything else we’ve done, at least.”

Jongin grins tiredly, then sees the shaken look on Sehun’s face. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Sehun shrugs. “My head hurts.”

“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s probably normal?” Jongin has no idea, really. “This kind of...magic is a lot to handle.”

“I thought I was gonna die the first time,” Minseok offers. 

“We should get some rest,” Jongin says. “We can’t work when we’re this tired. Minseok, meet me in a couple hours…?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Minseok mutters, curling up right there on the floor. “Wake me up when it’s time to work.”

Jongin smiles slightly. “It’d be comfier on the bed.”

Minseok waves his hand vaguely. “Thought you’d be taking it.”

“Hmm. True.” Jongin crawls toward his bed mat clumsily, letting himself flop into it and kicking off his shoes. 

“Should I go home…?” Sehun asks uncertainly from his spot on the floor. 

“Mmm. You can sleep here if you want.” Jongin pats the pillow next to his face. “Room for two, as long as you don’t kick.”

There’s a pause, and then Sehun says, “I’m good at bed-sharing.”

“Then come on. We’re all napping.”

There’s a shuffling noise, and a few seconds later Jongin feels Sehun lying down next to him on his bed, leaving a couple inches of space between them. Jongin smiles to himself. Delta—and all paranormal groups, as far as he knows—had been fond of sharing sleeping spaces, of sharing _space_. Jongin had been used to it, had enjoyed it. He’s missed it so much, since Joonmyun and Yixing were taken. This feels nice. Jongin had almost forgotten how badly he’d been longing for closeness. 

“Are you going to try again?” Sehun asks quietly, just as Jongin is dropping off. 

“Hmm? Think so...if you wanna,” Jongin says on a yawn. 

“I think...I’d like to get better,” is Sehun’s soft reply. 

“We’ll try again then,” Jongin says. “Later. For now...sleep.”

Sehun lets out a breathy chuckle. “Alright.”

If he says anything else, Jongin doesn’t hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	15. Chapter 15

The first time Community Leader—Baekhyun’s father—visits him while he’s awake since he was injured is to tell him he’s not healing fast enough. 

It’s a brief meeting. Succinct, to the point. He comes in, tight-lipped, and asks Baekhyun what he’s all remembered since he lost his memories in the first place. Baekhyun knows, the moment he asks, that it won’t be enough. He’s remembered plenty, sure. Some of it is even stuff he remembers as being things he was told to keep stored in his brain—facts, dates, details. But most of it is incomplete. Most of it is vague, detached, irrelevant. A lot of it is personal stuff, memories of his family and friends. Baekhyun is forced to tell his father this—that he’s remembered a lot, but most of it is the nickname Yifan earned when he was twelve (March 15, it was a Saturday, Baekhyun had had a stuffy nose that day), and Baekhyun’s ninth birthday (his mom forgot, but Chanyeol didn’t, and he gave Baekhyun a necklace he made out of spare gears). Baekhyun can’t look him in the face. 

He earns himself a lecture. A short one, but a lecture all the same. _This is your duty as a member of this community. You were entrusted with something and it’s your responsibility to focus on getting them back. I know you’re trying but you need to try harder._ And then he leaves, avoiding Baekhyun’s gaze. 

He doesn’t say _how are you feeling?_ He doesn’t say _I’m worried about you, take care of your health._ He doesn’t say _at least you’re remembering something._ He doesn’t say _I’m glad you haven’t gone insane from grief and loss and frustration._ He doesn’t say anything. He just reminds Baekhyun that he’s broken, and failing, and useless. 

And his day sure as hell doesn’t improve from there. When Liyin comes in to do her daily rounds, Baekhyun can’t remember the exact date, no matter how hard he tries. He just...can’t do it. And then he keeps forgetting words, simple words, words he learned when he was two. He gets distracted and zones out and can’t stay on topic. His fingers twitch all day, and his tremors are awful in the afternoon. Yixing looks at him with these sad, sympathetic eyes, and Baekhyun snaps at him. When he gets up to do his physio, his balance is completely out of whack and he starts crying immediately, before he even takes one step. He can’t stop fucking crying, like a pathetic child, until suddenly he’s done and he just sits there, apathetic, and lets Liyin finish his therapy. 

Jongdae comes in at midday meal, as usual, and that’s good. Jongdae is a good distraction. Baekhyun has a couple vague memories to share with him, and Jongdae beams and tells him that’s awesome. Jongdae doesn’t comment when Baekhyun replaces a real word with gibberish without realizing it, and he talks to Baekhyun like he’s a normal person. 

He comes back at evening meal, when Baekhyun is feeling a little better. He has to remind Baekhyun that he’s already watered Chanyeol’s plant that day, but otherwise it’s a good evening. They play a card game Jongdae taught him—not as fun as the one Yixing plays with him, but a change is welcomed—and it has no memory component, so Baekhyun enjoys it, even though the cards fall out of his fingers sometimes. 

Halfway through the game, Baekhyun says, “Oh, Dae, I remembered something.”

“Awesome. Lay it on me.” Jongdae doesn’t take his eyes off his cards, flicking one out of his hands and laying it face-up on the pile before choosing a new one. 

“It’s from a book. Textbook. There’s a man on the cover in old, old clothes. Like, the clothes don’t look _old_ , they’re not _old_ clothes, they’re, you know. Old.”

“As in, from a long time ago?” Jongdae asks. He gestures for Baekhyun to pick a new card. 

“Yeah, right. That kind of old. Is there a word for that that I’m forgetting?”

Jongdae makes a vague sound. “Old-fashioned?”

“I guess.” Baekhyun drops a card, picks it back up. Fucking twitchy hands. “Anyway, there’s a man in old-fashioned clothes on the cover, and the background is brown, and there’s a little gold statue too. It might be Buddha.”

Jongdae glances up at him, then back at his cards. “Okay. Is that all you remember?”

“No. I remembered some parts of the pages. Okay, one page. It’s about a war. Or something. In 1231. Another group was invading...I don’t remember the name.” Baekhyun rubs his forehead in annoyance. “There was a siege. With...those huge weapons, you know, those...catapults? That’s right, right? And as a weapon they used these fire-bombs that were, they were like, literally made out of boiled fat. Isn’t that disgusting? And then—”

“Oh, Baek. You already told me this one.”

Baekhyun looks up at Jongdae in surprise. “I did?”

“Yeah.” Jongdae rubs his nose, puts down two cards. “Only last time you told me the name of the city under siege. Ku...something. I don’t know. I figured you’d remember.”

Baekhyun stares at him. “I already told you this memory?”

“Mhmm.” Jongdae stretches his arms. 

“But...I just remembered it. Today.” Baekhyun feels his breath coming in shorter bursts, his throat closing up.

All Jongdae does is shrug. “Yeah, you told me this one like a week ago. I remember, because boiled fat as a weapon is really disgusting. You don’t forget something like that.”

Baekhyun swallows hard, drops his cards again. He picks them up with shaky fingers, and then all of a sudden he’s so fucking pissed off that he throws them onto the ground in a shower of paper. “ _Fuck!_ ” 

Jongdae looks up at him with wide eyes. “Whoa, Baek, what’s wrong?”

“ _Everything_ is fucking wrong, Jongdae! _‘You don’t forget something like that?’_ Well apparently I fucking do!” Baekhyun picks up his tin cup from the table next to his bed, whips it at the wall, relishes in the clatter it makes. “ _God._ ” 

“Baek! Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I know you forget things.”

“That’s the _point_ , Jongdae! All I fucking _do_ is forget things. Why can’t I remember?” Tears start streaming down his face instantly, and Baekhyun _hates_ it. He fucking hates it. He’s an emotional mess, he can’t keep his mood swings in check, he can’t walk, he can’t keep track of if he’s fucking watered his dead best friend’s plant. And he can’t remember the simplest fucking things. He slumps over, digs his fingernails into his arms until it hurts, until he thinks he might be drawing blood, and he just _sobs_ with his anger. 

Jongdae sits beside him, looking shocked, and Baekhyun feels so disgusted with himself. “Are you okay?” his friend asks dumbly. 

“I’m just mad,” Baekhyun hiccups, digging his fingers in harder. “I’m just fucking… _furious_ because my dumb, broken, useless brain has been...screwing up my life all day, all _month_ , and I’m just. I’m so fucking sick of it. I only ever had one thing…going for me and now I lost it. Now I’m _nothing._ ” 

“Baek, stop.” Jongdae reaches out, pries his fingers away from his skin. Baekhyun can feel the warm stickiness of blood. “You’ve had a bad day.”

“I’ve had a bad _life._ ” Baekhyun chokes on the last word, wants to punch something. But not Jongdae. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Jongdae leans in, draws him close to hug him gently—he’s more careful of Baekhyun’s broken body than usual. “Do you want me to stay?”

Baekhyun lets out a shuddering breath. He hates feeling like a baby all the time. “No. Go.”

Jongdae hesitates, then releases him. “Alright. I’ll give you some time, okay? Call for me if you need me.”

Baekhyun forces himself to take a nap, because the only other option is to marinate in his own misery. He’s just so damn mad at his entire life, all the terrible things that had to happen to him—his psychotic, uncaring father; his dead friends; his bad decisions; his damaged body; his defective brain. Sometimes, he knows that it was unfair of his father to expect so much of him, to make him think his only redeeming quality was his extraordinary memory. But that doesn’t make it any easier for him to live with the consequences. 

He forces himself to sleep. 

When he wakes up, Yixing is in his room. He’s smiling, like always, his face glowing gold in the light from Baekhyun’s bedside solar lamp. “Morning,” he says softly. 

“Isn’t it night?” Baekhyun asks, voice thick. 

“Yeah,” Yixing says. “Hey, I wanted to give you something.”

“What?” Baekhyun’s head is fuzzy, his words are slurred. Napping almost always makes him feel like shit, but at least it saves him a couple hours of feeling like shit anyway. 

“I wanted to give you something. A gift.”

“Uh...why?” Baekhyun asks. 

“Because I wanted to.” He looks at Baekhyun meaningfully, like Baekhyun should know what he’s talking about. Baekhyun just feels lost, but he almost always feels like that. It’s best to just pretend, he’s come to learn. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well. Okay. What is it?”

“It’s a bracelet.” Yixing holds out a band of dry, woven grass, and in the middle is a single black bead—one of the beads from his or Joonmyun’s Partner’s Necklace. “I made it for you. Traditionally, they’d have more beads, and they’d mean something. But I thought you might want to keep the beads for gambling.” He laughs. 

“Oh. Um...thank you.” Baekhyun reaches out, takes the bracelet from him and inspects it in the weak lamplight. “That’s super nice of you.”

Yixing beams. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. It’s really nice.” Baekhyun fingers the braided grass, feels the tough fibers against his skin. 

“I’m really glad.” Yixing looks it. “Today seemed like a good day to give it to you.”

Baekhyun takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Yixing is quiet for a long minute, and then he says, “Do you want me to read to you?” 

“Uh...sure. I guess.” He has nothing better to do. He sent Jongdae home. 

“Just let me know when you want to stop.” Yixing reaches for the book he keeps stashed between Baekhyun’s bed and his bedside table and opens to a marked page. 

Baekhyun lets him read until his voice starts coming out scratchy, and then he says he’s falling asleep. He remembers who all the characters are. He remembers what happened in the last chapters. Yixing smiles at him and holds his hand briefly before going to bed. 

In the morning, Baekhyun gets Liyin to tie his bracelet on for him. Liyin asks where he got it from, so Baekhyun tells her. 

“Oh, so Yixing gave you a gift, did he?” She smiles indulgently, knowingly. Baekhyun feels lost again, but he feels his cheeks warm nonetheless. 

“Yeah. It was really nice.”

Yixing comes in a little later and sees the bracelet on his wrist immediately. He grins. Behind him, Joonmyun eyes Baekhyun and glowers. 

For a moment, Baekhyun has to wonder if Joonmyun is jealous. He’s pretty sure Yixing had told him they’re definitely not a thing—beyond magic partners, of course—but Baekhyun is suddenly a little suspicious anyway. “He’s just being nice because I’m pitiful,” he assures the sorcerer when Yixing steps out of the room. 

Joonmyun rolls his eyes. “No, it’s because he likes you. God knows why.” 

Baekhyun has to pretend not to be pleased. It’s nice to be liked by someone, even when that person has literally only seen him at his worst. Even if it is a sort of matronly, pitying affection. 

In any case, Jongdae gets a kick out of it when he sees it and Baekhyun gives him a mumbled explanation for his new accessory. Baekhyun should have known.

***

By Chanyeol's 50th day in X-22, things are finally, _finally_ looking up.

He's not sure if anything has actually _changed._ He gets fed the same amount, he works the same hours, he has the same expectations weighing on him. But things just...start to look a little brighter, after a few weeks of suffocating darkness before that. His leg is doing a lot better, which means his mobility is way up. And his hand wound is infection-free and healing well, too, so although he can't use it as well as normal, and it still itches like hell, that's not a major issue in his life.

Progress goes well for a couple days, too. Chanyeol has a pretty major breakthrough with the Machine, figuring out a wiring problem and discovering, after taking the whole fucking thing apart, how the majority of the parts fit together and work. Of course, he still has to put things back together the right way, and replace all the parts that are broken or rusted beyond rescue or just literally disintegrated into nothing, and get the wires and things to actually _work._ But he feels proud of himself. He's getting somewhere. He might actually _get_ somewhere.

Also, he’s making headway with his little puzzle box. He didn't work on it for a while, not during The Dark Days (as he calls it, scathingly, in his head—days 30 through 36, if he's being specific). It was too much for him, and his injured hand had been completely useless for fine motor skills. But now that that's improving, he's working on it again, just in the evenings when Kyungsoo is around, and he's opened a few more panels, solved a few more puzzles. So that's nice. It feels like he still has that connection with Baekhyun when he messes around with it, like he's still nurturing their friendship while they're separated.

He wishes he had something from Yifan, too. But there's nothing—everything else in his bag or on his person had been taken away when he was first captured in battle—so he makes do with the nightly conversations he holds with his best friends in his dreams.

He wishes he had his plant.

But in any case, things are...pretty good, comparably. Sometimes, if he just pretends he's in his workshop back in Q-16, working on things for Community Leader and waiting for evening meal to talk to his friends, even fixing the Machine isn't too bad. And although at evening meal—supper— his friends from Q-16 don't come, Kyungsoo does. Kyungsoo, with his pleasant conversation and soft smiles and gentle hands, with his warm food and little things Chanyeol didn't ask for but desperately wishes for. Water to wash himself. Clean clothes. An extra blanket as the nights get cooler.

And Kyungsoo seems happier if Chanyeol is happy. So Chanyeol does his best.

The first few minutes of Kyungsoo's shift are always quiet, subdued. They still have to make sure Seulgi has left and can't hear them before they start really talking, and Chanyeol uses that time to quickly eat and give Kyungsoo hushed updates on how he's doing and how his work is coming along. But after that, it's basically a free-for-all. Chanyeol's metaphorical bonds loosen, and so does his tongue.

"You should marry me," he says, getting up to finish what he'd been piecing back together before supper. He can't afford to forget which parts went where.

"Uh," Kyungsoo says behind him. "What?"

"I think I'm a very good marriage candidate. Look at me. Tall, handsome, very handy. Some decent muscles on me. Specialized skill set." He turns, shoots Kyungsoo a grin. "Did I mention handsome?"

Kyungsoo snorts. Chanyeol had been hoping for a full-out laugh, but he'll take what he can get. "Yeah, I think you did. But have you seen yourself lately?"

"Actually, now that you mention it, no. None of the metal in here is polished enough to see my reflection." Chanyeol aims an exaggerated pout in Kyungsoo's direction. "Be a dear and find me a mirror?"

"How about I describe you instead?" Kyungsoo suggests.

Chanyeol grins, tightening a screw before turning around fully and striking a pose, one arm braced against the side of the Machine. "Go on then. Flatter me."

"Who said anything about flattery?" Kyungsoo's smile is wide, pulled to one side. It's not as nice as his big, round grin, but it's still a blessing to Chanyeol's sore eyes. "You have crusty blood on your right temple and your haircut is frankly terrible."

"Not fair, I cut it myself, _blindly._ You are being too harsh." Chanyeol sniffs, turns back to his work to hide his smile. He hesitates, then says, "What kind of friend are you?"

He holds his breath until Kyungsoo replies, voice even, "An honest one."

Chanyeol exhales softly in relief. The other day, Kyungsoo called himself Chanyeol's _friend._ He's been waiting ever since for him to say it again.

"Okay, but, on a scale from one to ten, how marriable am I? Super great husband material, right?" Chanyeol prompts, picking up a different wrench.

"Depends. How well can you sire children?"

Chanyeol snorts. "Right now I'm oh for oh. However, one, that would require I marry a person with lady parts. And two, I don't think this planet needs more people on it just yet."

"Fair enough," Kyungsoo says mildly.

"Not sure this planet needs more Chanyeols, either," Chanyeol adds after a moment of thought, sliding a gear onto a pin.

"Weren't you just listing all your wonderful qualities?" Kyungsoo asks.

"Oh, well, yes. I won't deny that I have _many_ ," Chanyeol says, smiling to himself. "But, you know. Annoyingly prone to distraction. Disruptive. A constant danger to himself. Has trouble shutting up."

"Uh, incredibly smart. Crazy selfless. And did I mention handsome?"

His last words are teasing, but they make Chanyeol grin giddily at his hands anyway. "Why, Soo, I didn't think you'd noticed."

Kyungsoo snickers behind him. "But really, if you ask me, the planet could do with a few more Chanyeols."

Suddenly, Chanyeol feels a little _too_ flustered, pink-faced and warm, so he laughs and says, "Are you offering to bear my tiny demon babies?"

"Uh, I think there might be a few flaws in that plan," Kyungsoo says, and his tone is flat, but Chanyeol can hear the humour beneath it. "But if you'd like, I can find you a nice partner with all the right parts for the job."

Chanyeol has a very unnerving thought then, a very inappropriate reaction to Kyungsoo offering to find him a partner, so he quickly brushes it away and bites his lip, forcing a laugh that's too loud for the warehouse. "I think I'll pass."

"Not sure I know any single females, anyway. Uhhh...Victoria?"

"Your commanding officer?" Chanyeol yelps. "Soo!"

Kyungsoo does laugh then, a real laugh, and Chanyeol turns quickly to catch the tail end of it, the way his eyes curve up, the way his nose scrunches, the way his lips stretch in a pretty shape around a pretty sound. Chanyeol wants to—

"Don't even joke about that, Kyungsoo," Chanyeol says quickly, feigning outrage. "You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"But you should have seen your face," Kyungsoo laughs. "Come on, she's quite lovely when she's not, you know, threatening people and pointing her blaster at you."

"Yes, but I blame her for literally every bad thing in my life," Chanyeol says, shaking his finger at him.

"But it's so funny to imagine," Kyungsoo sighs, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. Chanyeol glares, and Kyungsoo relents. "Fine, fine, I can see it's in bad taste. I'll keep thinking."

"I'm hijacking this conversation," Chanyeol says. "You've lost conversation topic privileges."

"Aw, come on."

"No. Nope. It's my turn again."

Kyungsoo huffs behind him, but Chanyeol knows him well enough to know he's not actually upset. So he starts talking about wheels, because if he's being honest, it’s a topic he’s extremely interested in currently. After all, the Machine is the first vehicle he's seen in real life. He made the truck for Q-16 out of spare parts he found around the community—old tires and gears and axles—based on a vague idea he had from reading books. Any pre-apocalyptic vehicles left behind in the streets and outside had been so weather-worn and rusted that he literally couldn’t gain any knowledge from them. The Machine is much more complex than anything he's really seen that’s in somewhat-decent shape. 

So he talks and talks about what he's discovered about vehicles and how they drive, how they turn, the mechanisms in place to make turning the wheel in the cockpit turn the wheels on the ground with barely any effort. This is a safe topic; this is something unrelated to Chanyeol, to Kyungsoo, to their relationship. This is something Chanyeol can ramble about for hours.

So he does. He talks and talks, making up names for parts he has absolutely no experience with, probably confusing Kyungsoo to hell and back, as he finishes putting things back together and begins to tidy up his work space. Kyungsoo makes comments occasionally, assuring Chanyeol that he's listening and at least _trying_ to understand, but Chanyeol barely notices. He actually manages to get kind of swept up in his monologue, outlining the wonders of the Old World's inventions.

"It's just, you know, they _really_ knew what they were doing back then. We lost all that knowledge—everything that's not in books, at least. And maybe we can salvage some of the machines that once made these inventions possible, or recreate them, but will we ever really remake what we had in the past? Thousands of years of inventions might be lost. But even so, we can still look at a lot of them, and learn a lot. There are lots of machines in the bunkers that I never got a chance to look at. Things I'd still like to take apart and learn about. Refrigerators and heaters and music players. But at least right now I can look at this. And how amazing is this, you know? All these tiny parts, all working together to make something move, to make it do what you want it to. A robot, specially designed for one purpose. A terrible purpose, sure, but that aside. It's incredible, isn't it? I guess it reminds me of my community. Everyone has to be doing their part to make things work. People to grow, people to build, people to protect, people to feed, people to care for little ones. Everyone is doing their part."

He finishes putting his tools away and turns to look at Kyungsoo, who has been silent for a while. He finds the other man sitting on the floor and staring at him, his lips curled up, his eyes… _fond._ "Keep going," he says, voice warm. "I like hearing you get all excited about stuff."

Chanyeol swallows, embarrassed, and rubs his good hand through his hair. "I have a lot of time to think during the day," he admits ruefully.

"I can tell. Are you done?" Kyungsoo props his chin on his hand.

Chanyeol shrugs, ducking his head. "I guess. Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for? It was interesting. Society as a machine. Did we learn about that in our lessons as kids?"

Chanyeol shrugs again. "Didn't pay attention in class."

"That's right. You're just naturally smart." Kyungsoo grins. "It's nice to see someone looking that far ahead, though. Everyone's just focused on the present, worrying about what we'll do tomorrow, next month. Which is probably good, it’s necessary, but still. You're looking into the future. That's awesome."

"I don't know. Looking at the present just isn't that encouraging," Chanyeol says, carefully sitting down in his usual spot against the Machine. He reaches for his puzzle box behind the wheel.

Kyungsoo hums. "Yeah. You're right. Let's think more about our future."

 _Our future_ , he says. _Our._ Chanyeol smiles, pushes away bitter thoughts. "Yes, let's."

***

Minseok is kissing Luhan. 

Everything is hot and suffocating and… _foggy_ , and Minseok is kissing Luhan. Luhan doesn’t even know where they are or...what he was doing. All he knows is that Minseok’s mouth is pressing against his, moving and licking and biting, and Luhan is _dying._

“Oh, god,” he breathes, twisting his fingers in Minseok’s hair, holding him close. “God. Minseok.”

Minseok hums against his lips, then moves down, down, kissing along his throat, mouthing at his collarbone. He pushes up Luhan’s shirt and presses his lips to Luhan’s chest, down the center of his ribcage, dragging his teeth along the soft skin of his stomach. Luhan shakes and groans and breathes harshly, his whole body on fire. “Minseok,” he whimpers, and Minseok keeps moving down, to his belly button, lower, lower, and—

Luhan wakes up with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his bed. Next to Minseok. Fucking _hell._

“Lu?” Minseok mutters, rolling over to face him. “You okay?”

Luhan _really_ feels like he’s going to die now. “Fine,” he says unconvincingly, chest heaving. He can still feel the ghost of Minseok’s lips pressing against his mouth, his skin. He shivers uncontrollably.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Minseok slurs, rubbing his face into his pillow. 

Luhan holds his breath. “What’d I say?”

But Minseok just makes a tired, vague sound. “D’nno. Was sleeping.”

Luhan’s relief is short-lived. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says, scrambling clumsily to his feet. He’s hot all over, sweating. 

“Mmm,” Minseok says. “I’ll come with.”

“No, it’s okay,” Luhan says. “I’ll be right back.”

Minseok makes a soft groaning sound, but drags himself upright nonetheless. “Nah, might as well. Don’t want you to get lost out there.”

“I’ve been living here for almost two months, Minseok,” Luhan mutters. Saying his name makes Luhan heat up. 

“It’s dark,” Minseok says, smirking at him sleepily, reaching out to...pinch him or something, Luhan doesn’t know, he’s jerking away before Minseok can even get close. 

He gives up on trying to convince Minseok to stay and focuses on not looking at him as he navigates his way out of their house and towards the bathrooms. Oh, god, this is so bad. This is really… _really_ bad. Minseok is all tired and squinty and his hair is a mess, and Luhan is still thinking about his fucking dream, and thinking about how warm Minseok’s skin must be under his shirt. And he still wants Minseok to kiss him. 

Even though it’s _bad._

He had been seriously shocked when Minseok kissed him on the night of the harvest party. Minseok’s been flirting with him, teasing him, since Luhan first joined X-22, but he never thought Minseok was _serious._ He never thought there was a possibility that Minseok actually _liked_ him. 

But there it was. Not just one kiss, but several. Shining eyes, a genuine smile, a warning that if Luhan didn’t like him back, he could tell him to stop. But Luhan hadn’t. _God_ , he hadn’t wanted him to stop. His heart was racing, his blood was rushing like fire in his veins, and he’d just been chanting _kiss me, kiss me, kiss me_ , over and over in his head. He’d never thought about Minseok kissing him before that. Never even considered it. It was a wildly inappropriate thought to have. Minseok should _not_ be kissing him, and Luhan should _not_ be wanting him to. 

But he so, so does. 

But at the same time, he really doesn’t. Just thinking about it makes Luhan nervous. What does Minseok know about the _real_ him? Luhan is here for Chanyeol. To save the friend X-22 took away from him. Minseok doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know Luhan is just using him for information. He wouldn’t be kissing Luhan if he _knew_. And Luhan shouldn’t be kissing him no matter what. Or dreaming about kissing him. Or even sleeping next to him, really, if he had any sense of self-preservation. 

And he really shouldn’t be thinking about the fact that if Minseok was part of his own community—if Luhan’s fake persona was the truth—he would be all over him. He would be so in. He would be dragging Minseok, with his wicked smirks and sharp wit and strong arms, right back to bed, right now. 

God, Luhan is so fucked. 

He sits in the bathroom longer than necessary, trying to cool off. Minseok hasn’t kissed him since the party. He hasn’t even mentioned it. He hasn’t said _oh, that was a mistake_ , or _don’t worry, I’m just trying to take it slow,_ or _I changed my mind, I still don’t trust you_. He hasn’t said anything at all. He’s honestly treated Luhan the exact same as always, except with...distinctly less suggestive teasing. So. That might not be a good sign. 

No, no, that’s a _great_ sign. Luhan doesn’t want Minseok to kiss him, to be interested in him. He needs to focus. He needs to figure out how to save Chanyeol, and get back to Yifan. It’s been almost two months. He’s wasting time. 

“Minseok, can you tell me about the night watch system?” he asks the moment he’s stepped out of the bathrooms. 

Minseok blinks at him in the dim light cast by the nearly-full moon. “Why do you want to know about that?”

“In case I need to pee at night again,” Luhan says, just as he’d planned. It still comes out a little shakily. “I don’t want to be shot just because my bladder is tiny.”

Minseok scoffs, but it sounds forced. “Sure you’re not thinking about running away under the cover of darkness?”

Usually, Luhan would insist that that’s not the case. But tonight, he just shrugs and says, “You never know when the life of a rogue might call to you again.”

Minseok stares at him, eyes wide in the moonlight. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

Luhan swallows hard. “Well. I don’t know.”

“I thought you said you’d stay for the winter at least.”

Luhan can’t remember if he ever actually said that or not, but he just shrugs again regardless. “Plans change.”

“Oh,” Minseok says. Luhan looks away from the disappointed furrow of his eyebrows, doesn’t stop to see if he looks hurt. “Well. I guess I’ll ask my sister about it and get back to you.”

“Okay,” Luhan says shortly. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He lies down on his bed mat and feels awful for a long time after that, thinks about whether Minseok will be upset when Luhan leaves—whether he’ll be mad when he finds out Luhan was only here to take something back from his community. Of course he will be. Luhan will have betrayed the trust he’s spent so long building up. 

But will he be sad because he liked Luhan? Or will that be forgotten in his anger? 

Luhan will not be forgetting how much he likes Minseok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	16. Chapter 16

Every day, before they start their real work for the afternoon, Jongin and Minseok attempt to heal Sehun’s brain scarring. It’s...slow going, to say the least. Every day, they try again to get a grip on the black energy inside his skull, wrap it up in something good, force it away. But every day, it’s just as hard. Jongin tries and tries and _tries_ , but it’s so painful, it’s so overwhelming, it’s terrifying every time. Minseok isn’t faring any better. Sehun isn’t improving. 

But Jongin has a good feeling about their seventh day. He’s in a good mood, the weather is beautiful, the ground is thrumming with energy after a light rain overnight. He thinks today might be the day for a breakthrough. 

“Why are you smiling?” Sehun asks nervously, sitting on Jongin’s floor as usual. 

“Happy isn’t good,” Minseok says. “We only do things right when one or both of us is pissed off.”

“That’s not true,” Jongin says. “We do things right when we’re neutral now.”

“I don’t feel very encouraged,” Sehun interjects. 

“It’ll be fine. Excuse me for being hopeful.” Jongin shoots Minseok a small glare. “Alright. Round seven. Let’s see what we can do.”

It starts off the same way as it always does—with Jongin drawing the sickness into himself slowly, and feeling good energy flow into him from the ground to counteract it. Sometimes, Jongin wonders what would happen if he tried to block the good energy out and just try to wield the bad, but he kind of suspects the result would be him dying, so he doesn’t try it. But even with the good energy inside him, the sickness tries to black him out and overwhelm, tries to spread into every corner of his body like a drop of blood in water. He holds his breath, grits his teeth, feeds it into Minseok at the slowest pace he can manage. 

“Hey, here we go,” Minseok says, voice tight, breaths harsh. Jongin can sense him shaping the energies, transforming them, forcing them into the form he wants. He’s doing a good job. Jongin has to focus most of his attention on controlling the flow of energy through him, but he spares a moment to appreciate how hard Minseok is working, how efficiently despite how much pain he must be in. 

It’s working. Jongin can feel it working, he can feel everything going right. Everything is huge and painful and too much, but the black, sick energy is flowing out of Sehun and through Jongin, into Minseok, and the good energy is doing the same from the ground, and it’s spinning, it’s changing, it’s doing exactly what they’re telling it to. Jongin feels positively triumphant.

And then something slips. It feels like a screw has rattled loose at first, making one wheel wobbly. Something goes off in that single moment of weaker focus, and it’s enough to throw Jongin. He struggles for a moment, tries to tighten his grip, tries to get things back under control and steady. Minseok grunts as a spike of black energy shoots through him, and Jongin tries to yank it back, feeling everything beginning to slip through his fingers. 

“No, no, no,” he mutters, panicking, trying not to lose it. They had it, just now. They _had_ it. He can get it back. 

But he can’t. One moment of lost control, and everything’s unravelling. Jongin loses his hold on the sickness and it rushes into him—it’s too much for Minseok, so he tries to tighten control on that channel, but that means it builds up inside _him_. And it builds, and it builds. It’s too much, it feels like it’s _killing_ him, curling around his insides, squeezing up through his throat. Rationally, Jongin knows it can’t do anything to him, its form is too abstract, it’s not _meant_ for him, but it threatens to _choke_ him and Jongin is scared. 

“Jongin, stop, stop, just drop it,” Minseok says, sounding pained. 

“I can do this,” Jongin thinks he says, but everything sounds very far away. He feels like he’s drowning, and like he’s being eaten from the inside out. 

“We’ll try again after, Jongin, _stop._ ” 

“We were _doing it_ ,” Jongin insists. 

“Jongin you’re hurting me,” Minseok tells him forcefully. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongin says. He’s completely lost control, and he knows it. He’s leaking energy everywhere, because there’s literally nowhere left for it to go in his body except out, and he knows he’s pushing too much into Minseok but he can’t stop it. 

“Fuck, _stop!_ ” 

Something coalesces between them at the last second—a last-ditch attempt by Minseok to deal with the huge amounts of energy flooding his body—and Jongin breaks all connections with a resounding _snap!_ The solid mass of energy bolts, and Jongin hears a short, choked cry. 

Jongin opens his eyes and sees Sehun flat on his back, skin pale as death. “Oh, god,” Jongin breathes, going cold. “No, no, no. Oh my god.” His mind reaches out for Sehun’s familiar wavelengths, wanting reassurance, but feels nothing. He recoils, scrambles back across the floor, feels his head thud against the wall with a dizzying sense of detachment. “Oh my _god_ ,” he says, and then he lurches for the door, throws up just outside as panic and horror sweep through his exhausted body. 

“Jongin!” Minseok yells. 

Jongin barely hears him, his breaths coming faster and more painfully as he wipes the sour taste of bile from his mouth. _You killed him,_ a voice tells him, straightforward and rational as the rest of him melts down. _You killed him. He’s dead._

“Jongin,” Minseok says again, and Jongin vaguely feels hands on his shoulders as he shakes violently. Or is Minseok shaking him? He thinks maybe it’s both, but he can barely think past the way his lungs are spasming, the way his mind is an endless loop of accusations and nightmares. “Jongin _listen to me._ He’s okay.”

Jongin forces his eyes open, tries to breathe past the guilt clogging his throat. “He’s not,” he gasps. “He’s not.”

“Jongin, look at me. He’s _fine._ ” 

“I killed him,” Jongin chokes. He scrabbles at the front of Minseok’s shirt, frantic, trembling. “Minseok. I killed them.”

Minseok pulls him in, wraps his arms around Jongin and just...holds him. For the first time since Joonmyun and Yixing were taken away from him, someone holds Jongin, even despite the blood on his hands. Jongin breaks down and cries.

“He’s okay, Jonginnie,” Minseok says, his voice soft, soothing. “Look, I promise. He passed out, but he’s still breathing, his heart’s beating just fine. He’s gonna be okay. We’re all gonna be okay.”

Jongin registers what he’s saying, but he’s in no state to take it in. “I killed them,” he sobs. “Minseok, I. I killed them. I killed them.”

“Jongin,” Minseok sighs. He’s rocking them back and forth steadily, like a pendulum. It’s grounding, somehow. Jongin uses the beat of their swaying to measure his erratic breaths. “Is this about your parents again?”

“They’re dead and it’s _my fault_ ,” Jongin tells him, chest heaving. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Minseok says. He keeps rocking them, keeps holding him. “It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” Jongin hiccups.

Minseok’s hand is in his hair, gently pressing Jongin’s head down against his shoulder, petting the back of his skull. “Then explain it to me.”

“It’s my fault,” Jongin says, voice trembling, face hidden in the fabric of Minseok’s shirt. “I was so sick, and they. They wanted to save me. My mom—the sorcerer, just like me—she wanted to save me. But I was so sick, and I made her sick, too. She was so— She was so weak.” He sobs. “And she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it. It was my fault. She was so weak, and she _died_ saving me. I took everything that was left of her. And my dad, too. My dad died too. A conjurer can’t live without his sorcerer. I killed them _both._ ” 

“Oh, Jongin,” Minseok says, like an apology. “Just because they died saving you doesn’t make it your fault. It _doesn’t,_ ” he says more forcefully when Jongin tries to object. “Do you think they died for you, hoping you’d feel guilty for it for the rest of your life?”

“They didn’t think they’d die,” Jongin says, breath hitching against Minseok’s shoulder. “They didn’t _die for me_.” 

“They did. They sacrificed themselves for you. That doesn’t place the guilt on you. They died willingly, so that you would live.”

Jongin shakes his head, lifting it so he can wipe the tears from his eyes. “No,” he says, swallowing hard. “No. If that was a sacrifice, then where’s my Reward?”

“Your...what?” Now Minseok just looks confused. 

“My Reward. It’s— Great sacrifice begets great reward. It’s a paranormal thing.” Jongin’s head pounds with exhaustion and emotional hangover. “When a paranormal human sacrifices themselves for something, that last bit of energy, that last beat of their heart, it materializes as a Reward. There’s _always_ a Reward. But there was none. Traditionally, I should have gotten it. But I never did.” 

“Jongin…”

The sound of movement from the floor distracts Jongin in an instant, and he jerks in Minseok’s hold as he sees Sehun stirring. He groans, and Jongin is kneeling next to him as fast as his limbs can carry him there, feeling his forehead, reaching out with his mind, holding onto that familiar energy. “Oh my god, _Sehun._ ” 

“Ugh,” Sehun says groggily. “Did I have a seizure?”

Jongin starts crying again. “I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I thought I killed you. I thought you were dead and it would have been my f-fault.”

“What?” Sehun says, sounding completely confused as Jongin leans down to squeeze him tightly. “What happened?”

“The healing didn’t go so well,” Minseok says, his voice as steady and calm as ever. “You passed out for a minute, and Jongin had a panic attack because he has a guilt complex about killing his parents.”

“You...what?” Sehun asks from where his face is now smushed into Jongin’s shuddering chest. 

“Which he _didn’t_ ,” Minseok says pointedly. He’s down on his knees suddenly, right next to Jongin. “Come here, bud. Come on. Group hug.”

Jongin lets himself be manhandled, and Sehun is carefully helped to sit up so that they can both be pulled into Minseok’s arms right there on Jongin’s floor. Jongin thinks he’s still crying, overcome with relief and a million other things, but he’s surrounded by warmth and steady breathing and despite everything, it soothes him. 

“You didn’t kill Sehun,” Minseok says quietly against Jongin’s hair. “And you didn’t kill your parents. I don’t know where your Reward is, but to be honest, maybe that last bit of energy was used on you instead. It doesn’t matter. You. Did. Not. Kill them. You have not killed _anyone._ Do you think they want you to be sad all the time?”

Jongin sniffles. “I deserve to be sad,” he says weakly. 

“No you fucking don’t,” Minseok fires right back. 

“If I don’t deserve to be sad,” Jongin says, “why did I end up here? Why did I end up here, with no family, and no one left? Why am I alone?”

Minseok sighs into his hair, long and tired. “Goddammit,” he says softly. “I knew you weren’t expressing yourself about Joonmyun and Yixing enough.”

Just hearing their names again makes Jongin want to start crying all over again, but he doesn’t think he has any tears left. He lets out a dry sob. 

“Hey, shhh. It’s okay. We’re okay.” Minseok’s arms tighten around them. “You’re not alone anymore, okay? You’ve got me, and you’ve got Sehun. So let’s figure this out, alright? Sehun’s fine. We were really doing it, before. We can still do it. Let’s take the day off, okay? Let’s just rest and figure things out.”

Jongin wants to argue, wants to put up a fight, but he’s so, so tired. And Minseok says he’s not alone. He wants so desperately not to be alone. “Okay,” he whimpers. 

“Okay, Sehun?” Minseok asks. 

“Super confused, to be honest,” comes Sehun’s muffled voice. “But yeah. Okay.”

“Good boys.” Minseok squeezes Jongin tightly, so tightly that it hurts, and then he kisses the crown of his head, and Jongin breathes, and feels warm.

***

Ever since the grass bracelet, Baekhyun has started noticing a pattern. It's not very obvious at first, but it's definitely there. Looking back, he can definitely pick out several singular events (so long as his memory isn't failing him).

Yixing is being weirdly nice to him.

Not that he's ever _not_ been nice. Honestly, his defining character trait is _way too nice for a prisoner working under threat of death._ That's why it wasn't completely obvious in the beginning. Yixing has been smiling at Baekhyun and keeping him company and doing things for him since day one, despite all of the many, many reasons not to. And Baekhyun has appreciated it. Really, he has. But recently, it's getting a little out of hand.

It started with the grass bracelet. A sweet gift, really. On one of Baekhyun's worst days. Baekhyun thought it was a one-time thing.

But then he brought Baekhyun his evening meal. Which wasn't that odd, except that it was distinctly larger than Baekhyun's usual portions. He'd been feeling off all day, hadn't done well in physio, his tremors had been bad, and in the evening Yixing had come in with his tray—alone, no Joonmyun, no Jongdae—and said, "I brought you a meal."

Baekhyun had looked at it, all neatly arranged, and said, "This is more than a normal...ration."

"I added some from my own," Yixing said, smiling gently, face open and earnest.

Which was really a very sweet thing for him to do. Rations aren’t large in Q-16, and giving any of it up is one of the kindest things someone could do for you. It’s a sacrifice.

"Thanks," Baekhyun said honestly. "But I'm not hungry." It was the truth. He'd been feeling kind of nauseous all day, and the scent of the stew in the bowl was making his stomach turn. He'd nibble on some bread before going to sleep that night.

"Oh," Yixing said, face falling. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You should eat it."

Yixing had looked like he wanted to push it, but hadn't, retreating quietly to his quarters with the whole tray.

Baekhyun had thought that was the end of it, but a couple days later, Yixing was back with a new tray, this time at midday meal. "I brought this for you," he said, smiling uncertainly. Less confident than the first time. Baekhyun could differentiate this occasion from all the other times Yixing brought his meals because there was more food on his tray again, and it was still hot—something Baekhyun's meals rarely are. His bowl was all the way full, his bread was surprisingly soft, and Baekhyun could swear someone had tried to improve the presentation so that it looked more appetizing and less like something someone scraped off the bottom of a pot and slapped onto a tray.

"Oh," Baekhyun said. "Thank you." He took it willingly—he wasn't sick this day.

"A meal for you," Yixing had clarified, as if it wasn't obvious.

"Yeah. I'm starving. Thanks." It was a better day, and Baekhyun's hands had been surprisingly steady as he scooped food with his spoon. His speech has been getting better, his struggle to find words more manageable, his pauses growing more infrequent.

"Do you like it?" Yixing asked, like he had made it with his own hands.

Baekhyun shrugged. "Same...blah food as always. Not much to like."

"Oh." Yixing had looked legitimately disappointed.

Baekhyun felt sorry for him, somehow, even though it definitely wasn't _Yixing's_ cooking abilities he was criticizing. "It's not as gross as usual, though?"

That made Yixing smile slightly. "Well, at least you're eating it."

"Of course I'm eating it," Baekhyun said, confused.

His response seemed to cheer Yixing up, bizarrely. "Yeah. I'm glad," he said, and that had been the end of it.

That had been several days ago, though. Today, he's back with something new.

He stands in front of Baekhyun, some time after Liyin has left and Jongdae has gone back to work after midday meal, holding something behind his back, and bashfully says, "I don't really have any belongings with me here, so I didn't really know what to give you..."

"What?" Baekhyun says. "Yixing, you don't have to give me anything."

"Of course I do," Yixing says, eyes wide. "It's just that I don't really have any belongings, so...I kind of had to improvise. So I'm giving you the only thing here that _does_ belong to me, therefore being my item of most importance." He holds out his hands proudly, a little nervously.

Baekhyun looks at the cards in his hands, then back up at his face. "Your deck of cards?"

"I would have made you a new set that's not as beat up as these ones, but for one thing, that kind of defeats the purpose, and also, these cards have some significant meaning attached to them, right? We have memories together of these cards." Yixing seems desperate to prove himself, and the worth of the torn, bent, and creased cards in his hands.

"No, you're right," Baekhyun says, uncertain. "But those are _yours_ , Xing. You shouldn't give them to me. I'll just use them...whenever you say I can, you know?"

"But I want to give them to you," Yixing says earnestly. "They're for you. They're a gift."

"Are you sure?" Baekhyun asks. He's pretty sure Yixing won't back down, but he can't help but want to refuse.

"Positive," Yixing says. "I want you to have them."

"Then...okay. Thank you." Baekhyun reaches out, takes the cards and shuffles through them. They're familiar in his hands. Yixing was right; they have a lot of memories with these cards. He's won—and lost—many a game with them.

But this is the strangest gift yet. Baekhyun isn't having a bad day. He's not desperate for a soothing voice, someone to tell him he's doing alright. He's had a pretty alright day, if he's being honest. He's doing okay.

So why the spontaneous gifts? 

Yixing just stands there, staring at him, for several long seconds, and Baekhyun fidgets under his gaze. Is he supposed to say something here? 

Joonmyun chooses that moment to walk in, like he’d been waiting just outside the door. “So he accepted, then?” he asks, tired and grumpy. He’s not a big fan of Yixing’s sudden gift spree, either. Another way Baekhyun can’t avoid noticing it. 

Yixing rocks on his heels. “Baekhyun, do you accept my gift?”

“Of course,” Baekhyun says, puzzled. “It was...really nice.”

Yixing looks at Joonmyun with a hint of smugness. Joonmyun rolls his eyes in response. “He didn’t say—”

Yixing punches him in the shoulder—the most violent Baekhyun has ever seen him. “Shush,” he says. “He said enough.”

“Fine,” Joonmyun mutters, and they drop it. 

Later, Jongdae comes for evening meal, and Baekhyun clings to his hand and says, “I don’t think I can take anymore of this.”

“What?” Jongdae asks, unfazed as he eats his meal. 

“Yixing being way too nice to me even though I don’t...deserve it,” Baekhyun clarifies, flopping back in his spot and twisting his bracelet around his wrist, a new habit he’s picked up. “Like, I have never done anything for him? I am literally just making his life more difficult? But he keeps doing stuff for me?”

Jongdae grins and leans over to pat Baekhyun’s hand. “You poor dear.”

“No, listen! The guilt is...mounting. I am confused and afraid. He’s too nice to me. Joonmyun is getting jealous.”

Jongdae is suddenly interested. “Oh he is, is he?”

“I mean, Joonmyun has never liked me as much as Yixing does. Because he is a...rational person, probably.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Yixing told me they’re definitely not an item, but—”

“Oh he did, did he?” Jongdae wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Stop doing that,” Baekhyun says, flapping his hand.

Jongdae laughs. “I’ll take care of Joonmyun,” he says. “You find a gift for Yixing, if you’re so concerned about equity.”

“Please don’t...harass that poor man.” He knows it’s fruitless even as he says it. “But you _might_ be onto something.”

“Of course I am,” Jongdae says, smug. 

He obediently (but mostly for his own pleasure) drags Joonmyun into the paranormals’ quarters a couple days later, spouting some excuse or another, once Baekhyun has acquired a suitable reciprocal gift. “I got you something,” he tells Yixing once they’re alone together. 

Yixing looks positively stunned. “A gift?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Baekhyun says. “So I thought about it for a while, and I wanted to give you this.” He pulls it out from under his blanket and holds it out to him. 

It’s a book, specially requested through Liyin. “Oh,” Yixing says, surprised and almost awed. “Is it—is it something of yours?”

Baekhyun frowns. “Well, not _really_ ,” he says. “It’s the community’s. We don’t really own things here, we really just share...everything. But...it’s a book I read a lot when I was younger. It was my favourite one. It’s really good. I could probably _still_ retell it word for word, even despite—” He gestures to his head. 

Yixing blinks at him, still weirdly amazed that Baekhyun is giving something to him. As if no one’s ever repaid his own kindness before. “So it’s something of importance to you?”

Baekhyun shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

A sudden grin breaks out across Yixing’s face, wide and giddy and flustered. “Thank you,” he says, reaching out to take the book with reverent hands. “I— It’s a really nice gift, Baekhyun. You skipped some steps, but I accept.”

His response doesn’t make perfect sense, but Baekhyun is too distracted by how endeared he is right now to notice. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, smiling helplessly as Yixing cradles the book and _beams_.

“I like it a lot,” Yixing says. “It’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Baekhyun says, pleased. With Yixing’s enthusiastic response, he feels like he’s really done something to counteract Yixing’s overflowing generosity.

Yixing looks down at the book, _giggles_ , and then leans over and kisses Baekhyun’s cheek. When he straightens again, he looks a little shy, but mostly just happy. 

At this point, okay, Baekhyun’s slightly confused. Yixing is acting sort of weird. _However_ , paranormals seem to be sort of weird in general, with their touchiness and their magic and their propensity for gambling, so Baekhyun just lets it go and runs with it. He lets Yixing clutch at his hand for a moment, he grins at Yixing’s genuine joy, and then he watches with amused satisfaction as Yixing goes to tell Joonmyun about his new gift, like it’s the first time he’s ever received one. 

“I think he likes it,” Jongdae says later, winking at Baekhyun as he reenters the room. 

“I think so too,” Baekhyun says, still smiling. He can faintly hear Yixing’s excited voice from the other side of the door.

“Joonmyun looked exasperated, which is always fun,” Jongdae adds. 

“You are horrible.”

“I know,” is Jongdae’s pleasant response. 

“I’m glad he liked it,” Baekhyun says, snuggling down into his bed, stretching his legs. 

“I know you are.”

***

There are few things that make Kyungsoo as happy as seeing Chanyeol doing better. 

In all fairness, that aren’t a lot of things making Kyungsoo happy right now. His working hours are terrible, he rarely gets to see his friends or family, and tension in X-22 is rising as they panic about the upcoming winter, low food stores, and not enough arable land for their fall crops after the last harvest. Kyungsoo knows there have been an increasing amount of skirmishes against Q-16 over the Valley—something both communities are pinning their hopes on—but he can’t even do his part to help in them, because he’s asleep whenever the rest of his fellow soldiers are out there fighting. People are coming back injured increasingly often, the fear of deaths is weighing on everyone, but no one knows what else they can do. They need that land, and Q-16 refuses to give it up. 

Everyone is nervous, everyone is tense, but when Kyungsoo starts his shift and sees Chanyeol smiling, Chanyeol chattering, Chanyeol healing, he feels like things might be okay. If Chanyeol can get through everything currently happening in his life and still smile and be optimistic, then goddammit, so can Kyungsoo. 

“You’re looking busy,” Kyungsoo says when he walks in, puts down Chanyeol’s supper tray, and Chanyeol still hasn’t turned around from where he’s working inside the skeleton of the Machine. 

“I’m very busy,” Chanyeol calls back without breaking his stride. Kyungsoo can’t see what he’s actually doing in there, but there’s some rhythmic clanging coming from within. “Don’t distract me, I’ll forget what I’m doing.”

“Should I leave then?” Kyungsoo asks teasingly. 

“No, just stay right there, silently, so I can admire how you look from afar.”

“You’re not even facing me,” Kyungsoo says with a quirk of his lips. 

“Well if you’d shush, I’d be done sooner, and then the admiring could commence.”

Kyungsoo chuckles lightly, but obediently falls silent as Chanyeol works away for a few minutes, then finally says, “There!” and ducks out from underneath the Machine. There, he pauses, leaning against the rusted frame with his weight on his good leg, and looks at Kyungsoo for a moment, grinning softly. 

“I’ll eat your food if you don’t want it,” Kyungsoo threatens.

Chanyeol laughs and walks over, still limping but crutch-free. He takes the tray, and Kyungsoo uses his now-free hands to pull his sleeve over his hand and roughly wipe grease from Chanyeol’s jaw. “You’re filthy.”

“You always feel the need to point that out, don’t you?” Chanyeol says with a wrinkle of his nose. “Or are you just looking for excuses to touch my face?”

“You caught me. It has nothing at all to do with my neat freak tendencies and the fact that you look like a child let out to play in the mud.”

Chanyeol winks at him and retreats to eat his food. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. You can touch my face all you like.”

Kyungsoo snorts, stepping closer to the Machine to look it over curiously. “You’ve made a lot of progress recently,” he says. “I mean, by the looks of it.”

“I have,” Chanyeol agrees through a mouthful of food. “I’ve been getting little ‘reminders’ from Boa through Seulgi and Joohyun that I better be working hard on it.” He peers up at Kyungsoo. “You guys been getting into lots of fights recently?”

Kyungsoo shrugs, refrains from mentioning that most of them are against Chanyeol’s community. “I’m not awake for them,” he answers honestly. “Everyone’s getting antsy. I’m not surprised she’s trying to pressure you.”

Chanyeol hums. “Probably sick of feeding me,” he says, offhanded. “Rations are getting smaller.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Anyway, I’m aiming to get it running, at the very least, in the next week. I’m working on wiring right now, making sure everything’s connected.”

“You think you could be done that soon?” Kyungsoo asks, surprised. 

Chanyeol shrugs. “Just because it’s running doesn’t mean it’ll be working. I’m still working blindly. I’m making a lot of guesses, so…” But he looks hopeful. 

“That’s really great,” Kyungsoo says, smiling. 

“I should work on it more after I eat,” Chanyeol says with a sigh. “I don’t want to lose my train of thought. And I should probably start putting in more hours, if I’m being honest.”

Kyungsoo chews on his lip for a moment, tapping at a rusted iron bar. “I could help.”

“What?” Chanyeol looks up at him, eyes wide.

Kyungsoo shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “I could help you, if you wanted. Just, you know, hand you things, listen to you talk through problems. Extra set of hands.”

“Really? That’s, like, totally not in your job description. You’re just supposed to watch over me and make sure I don’t fuck shit up.”

Kyungsoo smirks a little. “It gets boring,” he says. “Let me help you. I might as well.”

Chanyeol breaks out into a grin. “Okay.”

Ten minutes later, they’re both half-crouching inside the Machine’s skeleton, on either side of a sharp blade. Chanyeol’s taken a few of them off to give himself room to work, but he left some of them in to save himself the hassle of reattaching them at some point, and it makes it crowded and dangerous there in the underbelly. 

“Hand me that wrench, will you?” Chanyeol says, grease-stained fingers rubbing at a loose knut (or bolt—Kyungsoo doesn’t know the difference). Kyungsoo does as he’s told, and Chanyeol goes about tightening it. “Look, this bar here is attached to this joint bit, which extends here to this piston. This thing runs on hydraulics. Each of these arms turns one of the blades—the dangling ones are where I’ve taken blades off. See how complex the jointing is here? I’m not sure exactly how they work, because I’ve never seen it in motion, but it probably means the blades won’t necessarily stay in this position. I mean, they’ll go kind of down and out and back in, like a grabbing motion, but it seems like you can make them do other stuff too. That’s what all the programming inside was for. But I tore it out, so you’d have to switch gears and stuff manually...I’m not sure exactly. I can kind of see how it would work in my head, you know, when I look at it, but it’s hard to explain.” He makes a frustrated sound. 

“Your brain is a wonder,” Kyungsoo says, utterly lost. “I really don’t know how it works.”

Chanyeol glances at him sheepishly. “Yeah, I’ve heard that a lot.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Kyungsoo says with a frown. Who has made Chanyeol feel like his extraordinary brain is something to be ashamed of? Kyungsoo feels unreasonably angry at whoever it was. “There’s no way I could just look at something this complex and _see_ how it worked. I probably wouldn’t ever be able to figure it out.”

“Well, I mean, every machine is basically the same. It’s all the same mechanics,” Chanyeol says, shrugging. “Once you’ve seen enough, you notice patterns. A pattern like this—” He gestures to a series of bars and joints and who knows what else, “—will make that grabbing motion I talked about. They become familiar. You just have to look hard enough.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head in silent disbelief. “Incredible.”

Chanyeol looks at him all shyly, biting his lip and smiling. “Thanks.”

Something warm stirs in Kyungsoo stomach. “Show me more,” he says, nodding towards the Machine vaguely. But he doesn’t look away from Chanyeol’s face until he has to. 

Chanyeol talks as he fixes, rambling about different parts, the names he’s given them, how he discovered how this or that works, the time he spent two hours looking for a screw he was holding in his hand, the way he fixed this using the knowledge he gained from fixing a laundry machine when he was fourteen. Kyungsoo can’t always follow him, but he’s more than content to listen and smile and nod along, holding and lifting things for Chanyeol when asked, offering his arm when he looks unsteady. It’s worth it when Chanyeol grins at him and says, “Sorry, I can stop,” and Kyungsoo can reply with, “No, keep going,” just to see the way his face lights up.

As night falls and it gets harder to see even with the help of Chanyeol’s lamp, they retreat to sit on the ground outside the Machine, and Chanyeol gets out his little puzzle box as usual. He seems positive that he’s getting close to fixing that, too, and he works on it avidly with deft fingers and keen eyes. Kyungsoo sits above him on the steps to the Machine’s cockpit, peering down at him as he works, and makes the odd remark, pointing out connections, offering suggestions, and otherwise providing scathing commentary. 

“Did I ask for your opinion, Master Fixer?” Chanyeol asks for the millionth time, but his smile is bright when he tips up his face to look at Kyungsoo. 

“I’m just saying, there are weird loopy shapes on three of six faces. It probably means something.”

“I’m almost positive they’re meaningless. I saw them on other parts, too, and they didn’t mean anything then. I think it’s just a stylistic thing,” Chanyeol says. 

“What if they _are_ connected and you’re wasting time pretending they aren’t?”

“Then it’s time wasted in good company,” Chanyeol says, and he laughs when Kyungsoo kicks him lightly in the shoulder. 

He gives Kyungsoo some time to talk, too—encourages it, really, asking him questions about how Jongin is doing, what Sehun is up to, how he and Seulgi became friends. Kyungsoo’s not as wordy as Chanyeol is, but he chatters freely, comfortably, the way he does with his friends and family. He thinks Chanyeol just likes hearing a voice other than his own, so he talks about whatever comes to mind, and lets Chanyeol lean against the side of his leg where it dangles next to him, feeling the warmth of his shifting arm through their clothes. 

Chanyeol’s movements gradually grow more sluggish, and his responses become slower and more slurred. Kyungsoo smiles and keeps talking, asks increasingly bizarre questions as Chanyeol sleepily answers them like they’re completely normal. Finally, he stops replying at all, and his puzzle box drops into his lap. 

Kyungsoo smiles, carefully climbing down from his perch and shaking Chanyeol so that he wakes up enough to crawl over to his bed blanket. He falls back asleep with his eyes slightly open, a habit Kyungsoo has noticed in the past, so he closes them gently with his fingertips, smiling fondly. “Goodnight, Chanyeol,” he whispers as Chanyeol makes a quiet sound in his sleep. 

Chanyeol breathes slow and even after that, and Kyungsoo watches his face for a few moments, so peaceful in slumber, illuminated from the yellow light of his lamp, his eyelashes standing out starkly against his skin the same way the grease smudges do. Kyungsoo has some on his own face now, probably. What a pair they must look. 

Kyungsoo sighs, brushes choppy hair off of Chanyeol’s forehead, and then walks towards his post outside the door.

“Kyungsoo,” comes Chanyeol’s soft voice as he retreats. 

“What?” Kyungsoo asks, turning back. 

Chanyeol doesn’t respond, eyes still closed, breaths still even. He’s asleep. He’s calling Kyungsoo’s name in his sleep. 

Kyungsoo sighs again. 

What a pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! I figured I might as well still update, stick to schedule and all that ^^;; 
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	17. Chapter 17

It takes some time for Jongin to feel ready to try healing Sehun again. 

Immediately after their accident, all of them feel a little shaken. Sehun didn’t exactly love being knocked unconscious, and it hadn’t been pleasant for Minseok either. But Jongin has it the worst, somehow. 

It’s just that the thought of trying again makes Jongin sick to his stomach—it conjures up images of Sehun flat on his back, cold to the touch—it brings back old nightmares of his parents’ faces haunting his sleep. He doesn’t want to do it again. 

But then Minseok says, “Remember how fucking scared I was to try conjuring again after it went badly?”

“You didn’t act scared,” Jongin mutters, huddled on his bed three days after their failure. 

Minseok laughs. “I was terrified. It hurt. I didn’t want to do things that hurt. But you know why I did?”

“Because Boa threatened you?” Jongin asks peevishly. 

“Because I knew that if I could do it, it would help a lot of people,” Minseok corrects. “Even though I was scared.”

Jongin lets out a slow breath. He knows what Minseok is getting at, and it makes sense. He understands. And he wants to help people, too. He wants to help Sehun, and he wants to help others in the future. But the contrary part of him wants to refuse anyway, wants to stay in his room where it’s safe, want to only do things they’ve succeeded at before without almost _killing_ somebody. 

“Even Sehun is willing,” Minseok says, nudging him. “Come on, baby bear. Get up. People to save.”

Jongin smiles slightly at the nickname. Minseok’s nicknames for him used to only be mocking—now they’re distinctly fond, if you look past the teasing front. “Okay,” he says. 

Since then, they’ve been at it again, every day. They start off slow, taking it easy, not trying as hard as they had been before the accident. Easing back into it. They don’t really get anywhere, but it helps soothe Jongin’s anxieties when Sehun reports zero discomfort. 

He also reports zero improvement, though, and after a week of that, Jongin starts to get impatient. He remembers that feeling he’d had right before he’d lost control that last time—that feeling of rightness. They’d had it. They can have it again. 

They just don’t have enough power. 

“We need to go closer to an energy pocket,” he tells Minseok at last, frustrated and eager to just… _do it._

“Really?” Minseok asks, surprised. “I thought you said it overwhelmed you.”

“In all honesty, I think I kinda...drained all the energy around here,” Jongin admits, wincing. “It’s getting harder to draw towards me, even for me. And also, just. I think for this I kind of _need_ to be overwhelmed with good energy. I think it’s necessary.”

Minseok thinks that over, then nods. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Let’s go.”

They lead Sehun out to a small garden filled with fall greens, their tiny leaves poking through tired soil. Jongin finds a spot where he feels a good balance—close enough to reach out and grab the energy he needs, but not so close that he’s drowning in it. “Alright,” he says, jaw set. “Let’s do it.”

“You sound confident,” Sehun says, sounding a little nervous himself. Jongin understands. The last time he sounded confident, things didn’t go over well. 

This time is different. “I’m not confident,” he says. “I’m _determined._ I know we can do it. We’re going to do it.”

“That’s my boy,” Minseok says, grinning. “Let’s blow shit up.”

“What?” Sehun yelps. 

“It’s a metaphor,” Jongin reassures him. “The first time we actually accomplished something together, we blew something up. We’re not going to blow you up.”

Sehun still looks uncertain, but he obediently sits between them, and Jongin closes his eyes to focus. His control has gotten a lot better in the past two months, so it’s not hard to block out the energy thrumming in the soil. But when he lets his safeguards fall, he feels how big it is compared to how weak it usually feels when he and Minseok work together now. It threatens to rush into him, like the sickness does when Jongin reaches for it. 

Perfect. 

He goes all in, right off the bat. He gives Minseok no warning, resulting in a sharp inhalation and a muttered _shit_ , but then Minseok steps up to match him, working hard to transform and shape. They go hard right from the beginning, and Jongin feels like he can’t breathe, full to bursting with two warring energies that he has to manage at the same time. 

It’s really fucking hard. The amount of control needed is enormous, and Jongin has to grit his teeth and power through the pain of it, the overpowering sense of everything being too much for one body. He shares it with Minseok, but he knows his conjurer can only take so much as well, can only do his own work so fast. He has to find that balance, and it’s not easy. 

It doesn’t get easier, now that he’s closer to a supply of raw energy. It gets harder, honestly, because he has to work harder to not let it all just flood into him and destroy him from the inside out. But he knows he needs that. The sickness is strong, so he needs something even stronger to counteract it. 

He can feel Minseok working hard, transforming as fast as he can, shaping, but this time, he ignores it. That’s not his job, that’s not his concern. All he has to do is act as the mover, the controller. He has to make things manageable. 

“More,” is the first word Minseok utters, voice cracking. “I need more, Jongin.”

“More what?” Jongin asks breathlessly, desperately trying not to lose his grip. 

“More raw. More good.” Minseok takes a deep breath. “I’m going to fucking _crush_ this thing.”

“Does that—” Jongin pauses, forces the energies back under control through sheer willpower, “—work?”

“I dunno, but we’re gonna find out!” 

From there on out, everything is pulsing energy and trying not to crack from the pressure. Jongin has very little clue what Minseok is doing; he just has to trust his partner and do his part. So that’s what he does. In those moments, Jongin’s entire world is black except for pinpricks of light—his own body, glowing with raw energy; Minseok’s, churning out something contrived; and Sehun’s, suspended between them. He breathes hard, works harder. 

“Come on,” Minseok mutters, sounding frantic, frenzied. “Come on, come on. Go, go, go. Go!”

Jongin feels the tail end of Sehun’s sickness as it slithers through his body and into Minseok’s. With a rush of breath, he pushes it through, and sends in a wave of raw energy to chase it. Minseok inhales sharply. 

For a moment, everything feels frozen, perfectly silent. No energy moves through Jongin’s body. It’s all in Minseok’s hands for that singular, breathless beat. 

And then light explodes behind Jongin’s eyes, and a lightning bolt of carefully transformed energy crashes through his system with such fierceness that he loses consciousness for a split second. When he comes back from it, gasping, his heart is hammering in his chest, and there’s a scorch mark on the ground to his left. Sehun is gaping at him. Minseok is panting hard, like he just ran a mile at full speed. Jongin can relate. 

“Holy shit,” he says. 

“Is it done?” Minseok asks, voice hoarse. “Did we do it?”

Jongin is almost scared to check. He feels a little detached from his body with exhaustion, weird and unstable. Still, he knows he needs to. With tentative fingers, he reaches out and touches the warm skin of Sehun’s forehead, inhaling shakily. Sehun stares at him with wide eyes. 

“It’s gone,” Jongin reports, swaying where he sits. Then, as realization catches up with him, he feels a grin spread across his face. “It’s _gone._ ”

“Are you sure?” Sehun asks. “I feel the same.”

“The sickness is gone. It’s completely gone.” Jongin laughs. “It might take a bit for the scarring to heal up properly, I don’t know, I’m not a doctor, but it’s _gone_. You’re gonna get better.”

Slowly, Sehun starts to smile too. “No more seizures?”

“No more seizures,” Jongin agrees, and then he tips himself forward into the clumsiest tackle he’s ever been a part of, dragging Sehun to the ground in a sorry excuse for a hug. Sehun laughs beneath him, and Jongin squeezes him weakly, groaning when he feels Minseok flop onto the pile. 

“Victorious!” the older man cries. “We’re real wizards now!”

“You’re crushing me,” Sehun protests, but he sounds happy, so Jongin doesn’t bother moving. 

“My baby Nini is all grown up and saving people,” Minseok says. “Proud of us.”

“Yeah,” Jongin says, his face smushed against Sehun’s chest. There are elbows and knees digging into him, he’s sore and achey and so exhausted he thinks he might pass out right there, and he’s so fucking happy. 

For a while there, Jongin hadn’t thought he could _ever_ be happy. This—being pressed between two people who care about him, who share his joy as well as his pain—is more than he had ever hoped for. 

“That being said,” Minseok says eventually, rolling off of them, “there _has_ to be a more efficient way to do this. I swear that nearly killed us.”

Jongin nods hazily, sitting upright as well. “I nearly drained all the energy under the garden, too…”

Sehun winces. “Don’t tell Boa that.”

“We’ll work on it,” Minseok says, stretching out his arms. “Wow. That was a lot.”

“Nap time?” Jongin asks hopefully. 

Minseok grins at him. “Just a short one. Then we have to get back to work.”

They head to Jongin’s house, which is now stocked with two beds rather than one, and Sehun and Jongin squeeze into one together while Minseok takes the other. The room goes silent. 

Jongin doesn’t fall asleep, though, busy thinking about all the things they could do with this ability, all the people they could help. He thinks about diseased plants, he thinks about the buildups of negative energy he senses in the joints of overworked Growers and Builders, he thinks about broken bones and infected wounds. He could help them. 

But he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. 

“Minseok?” he says, quietly enough that no one would wake up if they were already asleep. 

“Hmm?” comes Minseok’s groggy voice in response. 

Jongin smiles. “Thanks for agreeing to be my conjurer.”

Minseok huffs out a quiet laugh. “Go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Minseok yawns and rolls over. “You’re a pretty special kid,” he says thickly. “You just needed a bit of encouragement.”

Jongin grins. Minseok’s methods of encouragement are crude—pestering, pushing, provoking—but he won’t deny that they worked. “And you just needed someone to force you out of your comfort zone,” he shoots back softly. 

Minseok laughs. “I always appreciate someone who pushes back.”

“But you needed someone to make you do more than you thought you could handle.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Minseok hums. “I guess you’re right.” Then, in true Minseok style, he adds, “But just this once.”

Jongin falls asleep chuckling.

***

“Dae, seriously, just don’t even leave. Just stay here. Move in with me.”

Jongdae looks up sleepily from the notes he’s scribbling down on paper and grins. “Darling, you know I’d love to.”

Baekhyun doesn’t even bother looking at him as he reaches out to smack his head. “I’m serious. I have to call you back like a thousand times a day. You barely get any work done regardless. Just stay here.”

“It’s not _my_ fault you’re suddenly having a thousand memories a day,” Jongdae says with a pout. “I’m just trying to do my duty as a double-shift worker. I’m practically holding this community together.”

“It’s not my fault either,” Baekhyun says, ignoring Jongdae’s dramatics. “They’re just...coming all of a sudden. I can’t control them.”

“Any idea why?” Jongdae asks as he finishes up with his hasty, barely legible notes on Baekhyun’s most recent memory—something about aqueducts, Baekhyun just recited it and moved on. 

Baekhyun shrugs, then rolls his shoulder as it spasms. Sitting in bed all day tends to lead to cramped muscles, and he’s been feeling it more and more recently. “Xing and Joonmyun have been focusing all their magical powers on my brain lately. Pressure from good old Community Leader, I’m assuming. But I think it’s actually working, considering the sudden...influx of memories, right? Something’s going right.”

“Still not what Dr. Paranoid was hoping for, though?” 

Baekhyun frowns, shakes his head. “Nope. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s still just...history and geography and things like...computer programming, which is completely irrelevant now. Or it’s personal memories. And it’s still choppy. And chunks are still missing. I mean, there have been a few good bits, but. I don’t know.”

“Still, you’re remembering stuff,” Jongdae points out. “ _Lots_ of stuff.” He gestures towards his cramped, messy writing. “That’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun sighs. “I guess.”

“Soon you’ll be a normal functioning adult,” Jongdae says with a grin. 

Baekhyun cracks a smile. “Yeah right,” he says. “I need my hand to be held just to walk two steps. I barely even qualify for toddler.”

Jongdae makes a matronly _tsk_ ing sound that Baekhyun is almost positive he picked up from Liyin. “Speaking of hand-holding,” he says, “you shouldn’t be asking me to move in with you, your boyfriend might get jealous.”

Baekhyun delivers his strongest punch swiftly and without mercy. Jongdae barely flinches. “First of all, do not call him that.”

“But you know who I’m talking about,” Jongdae says smugly. 

Baekhyun ignores him. “Secondly, he already _does_ live with me. He’s literally in the next room right now.”

“Not the same.”

“It _is_ the same. And thirdly, he’s got his thing with Joonmyun going on.”

“Baekhyun. Darling. He’s told you, I’ve told you, Joonmyun’s told _me—_ ”

“When were you asking Joonmyun?”

“—They are not an item.”

“Okay, but is that what they both _want?_ ” Baekhyun asks. 

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Yixing is like...kind of obsessed with you.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “You’re such a gossiper.”

Jongdae sighs. “You’re in denial.”

Baekhyun starts to argue back, but then he has a sudden memory of Chanyeol and Yifan getting into a fight on Yifan’s sixteenth birthday and he has to tell Jongdae about it (mostly because it was funny), and by the time he finishes he’s remembered the bedtime story his mother used to tell him when he was a kid and he spends ten minutes trying to remember the exact wording of the ending, and by the end of that, his argument with Jongdae is forgotten. 

Yixing and Joonmyun join them in Baekhyun’s room for evening meal, as always, and at this point, Baekhyun isn’t even surprised when Yixing runs his hand through Baekhyun’s hair and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel a little flustered, though—even if it’s a typical, commonplace thing for paranormals to do, Baekhyun hasn’t been kissed (by anyone other than Jongdae when he’s feeling obnoxious) since he had a crush on his bunker neighbour when he was fourteen. It’s...well, it’s kind of nice. 

Joonmyun, on his part, acts like he doesn’t see, and Jongdae smirks, and Baekhyun glares at him under Yixing’s arm and mouths, “ _Stop that._ ” 

“Eat up,” Yixing says, taking his customary seat next to Baekhyun’s bed and scooting it closer as Joonmyun hands him his own tray. “What have you and Jongdae been up to? We can always hear you two bickering in here.” He smiles, and it makes Baekhyun feel all warm inside. 

“Oh, just the usual,” Baekhyun says, picking up his utensils. “Jongdae’s been gossiping, I’ve been hitting him.”

“The usual, indeed,” Yixing says, biting his lips as they turn up at the corners. “What’s he been gossiping about?”

“Baek’s mad because I keep saying—”

“ _Lies_ ,” Baekhyun says quickly, cutting him off. “And from now on he’s going to keep his...curly mouth shut.”

Jongdae just grins, unfazed, and a few minutes later, while Baekhyun and Yixing are discussing variations on a card game, he swings around suddenly to smack a kiss onto Joonmyun’s forehead. 

“What the fuck?” Joonmyun says, a piece of stewed radish halfway to his mouth. 

Jongdae tosses Baekhyun a look, smug and pointed. 

“That absolutely proves nothing,” Baekhyun gripes. 

“Hmmm,” Jongdae says, like he doesn’t agree. 

“You are the strangest person I have ever met,” Joonmyun says. He still looks torn between shock and resignation that this is his life now.

“Thank you,” is Jongdae’s predictable reply. 

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “I hate you.”

“Jongdae, go away, you’re bothering him,” Yixing says, continuing to eat calmly. 

Baekhyun grins at Jongdae’s offended gasp. “What did I do to deserve you?” he asks Yixing. 

Yixing’s returned smile is so shy and sweet that Baekhyun’s heart actually stutters in his chest a little, and his insides go all runny. For a moment, he nearly forgets their actual situation. 

He’s reminded, of course, when after their meal Joonmyun and Yixing take their places to go through the usual healing routine. Baekhyun sighs, sits back in his bed, and lets Yixing take his hands. Yixing’s are always so soft and cool to touch, and they’re familiar by now. They’re comforting. 

The healing starts, and Baekhyun sits there in silence, letting them do their work. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t feel like _anything_ anymore. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s gotten used to it, or because Yixing and Joonmyun have gotten better at their jobs, or if it’s because they’re dealing with abstract brain healing stuff now and that just doesn’t have a physical effect. 

Either way, Baekhyun lets them do their thing, and then afterwards they play cards or they read or they talk. Recently, Liyin’s been bringing Yixing and Joonmyun extra work to do for the community, because they can only heal Baekhyun so many times a day and they have nothing else to do apart from nap or whatever. It’s usually stuff like needlework—Q-16 has a very limited supply of clothes so they’re constantly patching and mending—or shelling peas for preserves. Stuff Baekhyun can’t really help with because his fine motor skills are still shit. 

They’re so goddamn bored that they’re _asking_ for more work. Baekhyun thinks that’s sad. 

Today, though, they either have no extra work or have already finished it, because they’re just lounging in Baekhyun’s room, chatting. Jongdae harasses Joonmyun, his new favourite pastime, and Yixing folds his arms on the edge of Baekhyun’s bed mat and rests his chin on them, looking sleepy and content. When Baekhyun lets his hand fall onto his bed next to him, Yixing reaches out to cover it with his own, then gently turns it over and runs his fingertips along the lines of his fingers. 

Baekhyun might have put it there on purpose. He likes having his hands played with, sue him. 

“Baekhyun,” Joonmyun says suddenly, startling him. Baekhyun’s hand jerks out of Yixing’s grasp, and Yixing gently takes it back again. “Once you get better, what happens to us?”

“Joonmyun,” Yixing says sharply. “Don’t.”

Baekhyun blinks at them. This is obviously an old conversation—Baekhyun has never even thought about it before. “I...don’t know.”

“We’re not here of our own free will,” Joonmyun says. Yixing sighs and lets his forehead rest on his and Baekhyun’s joined hands. 

“I know,” Baekhyun says dumbly. 

Joonmyun gives him a significant look. “So what happens to us after you get better?” His gaze flickers to Yixing. “What happens to him?”

Baekhyun looks at Yixing too, but the head resting on his bed mat doesn’t budge. His hand itches to run through his thick black hair, but he doesn’t move. “I really don’t know.”

“They’ve barely looked at us since they brought us here,” Joonmyun says, cocking his head to the side. “But they’re going to kill us after you’re better, aren’t they? That’s what they were going to do originally. Kill us.” 

“Joon,” Yixing whispers, desperate. 

“I wouldn’t let them do that,” Baekhyun says, suddenly breathless. “You’re—you’re not bad people. You saved me. They won’t kill you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Joonmyun challenges. 

“I won’t let them kill you.” It hits Baekhyun with an abrupt intensity. He’s known, all along, that Joonmyun and Yixing are captives. Prisoners of war. But they’ve been with him for so long that he’s forgotten what that means. They’re two people that live with him, help him, keep him company, keep him _alive_. They’re his friends. He turns his hand to squeeze Yixing’s. “I _won’t._ ”

Joonmyun lets out a long, slow breath. “Well, even so, what happens after they don’t need us anymore? They let us go home? You never see us again?”

Baekhyun sucks in quick, nervous breaths. “I don’t know.”

Yixing’s fingers tighten around his. Joonmyun frowns. “He doesn’t know, Xing,” he says. 

“Joonmyun, stop,” Yixing says quietly. 

Baekhyun swallows hard, and Joonmyun falls silent with a click of teeth. “Fine,” he mutters, and then retreats to his room. 

“Yeah...I’m gonna go,” Jongdae says. Baekhyun doesn’t blame him.

That leaves Baekhyun and Yixing alone, though, and Yixing still has his forehead pressed to their hands, silent and holding on tight. He doesn’t move, or speak, and Baekhyun doesn’t know what to say, either. Pain is squeezing at his chest, panic and anxiety. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say. 

So he doesn’t say anything, and instead gives in and leans down to press his lips to the crown of Yixing’s head, over his hair. It should feel weird—this may be normal for paranormals, but it’s not for him—but instead it just feels...right. He lets them stay there for a moment, and Yixing lets out a slow exhale. Baekhyun closes his eyes and prays that somehow, everything will be okay. He doesn’t know how that would be possible, but he hopes for it nonetheless.

***

On his 66th day in X-22, Chanyeol finishes fixing the Machine.

That is to say, every screw is in place, every wire connects, every broken part has been replaced or removed. Chanyeol goes over it once, twice, three times, and everything looks like it lines up. The battery is charged. The engine is oiled. 

Chanyeol can’t do it. 

He can’t turn it on. He finishes in the early afternoon, and then he spends the rest of his day tinkering and making minute adjustments, oiling gears, tightening bolts. He waits until Kyungsoo starts his shifts, and Chanyeol eats his supper, and then he waits a little longer yet, because he’s so nervous, and so excited. He’s really done it. 

But what if he hasn’t?

But what if he has? What’s next?

“Looks good,” Kyungsoo says, looking at the Machine from his spot near the door. “Just about done?”

“All the way done,” Chanyeol says through a dry throat. “I think it’s done.”

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Really?”

Chanyeol nods, shaking a little. “Yeah. I don’t know. I think it’s fixed.”

“Did you turn it on?”

“No.” Chanyeol chews his lip. “Not yet.”

“Should we do a countdown?” Kyungsoo suggests. “It can be a big event.”

Chanyeol inhales slowly, exhales even slower. “Let’s just do it.”

“Alright.” Kyungsoo stands by as Chanyeol heaves himself into the cockpit, fingers the wires sticking out of what used to be the ignition. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says, feeling hazy.

He’s going to do it. And then...he doesn’t know what. But he’s going to do it.

“Three...two...one…”

“Hold on, I have to connect some wires,” Chanyeol says, beginning to sweat. 

Kyungsoo laughs, waits while Chanyeol twists the ends of the battery wires together. If any of the indicator lights on the Machine still worked, they’d turn on now, but since they’re all dead he has nothing to prove that it worked. Still, this isn’t the first time he’s tried it. It should be live. 

“Alright,” he says, peeling electrical tape from the ends of two other wires; ignition. He holds them carefully—this is the dangerous part, the part that could get him electrocuted if he doesn’t do it right. “Go.”

“Three,” Kyungsoo says again, smiling up at him. “Two. One.”

“Come on,” Chanyeol whispers, and touches the ends of the wires together. 

The Machine comes to life under him, and Chanyeol quickly rewraps the wires and scrambles out of the cockpit to observe from his spot next to Kyungsoo, heart pounding. 

For a moment, everything shudders, and the engine turns, and pistons fire, and fans whir. Chanyeol watches in awe, breathless, as sixty-six days of hard work come together. 

And then something stutters and coughs, and there’s a terrible grinding noise, and an ear-splitting screech of metal on metal, a loud _crunch_ , and smoke begins billowing into the air. 

“Fuck!” Chanyeol says, disappointment and frustration punching him in the gut. “God fucking _dammit!_ ” He whips the roll of tape in his hands against the side of the Machine, finding some small satisfaction in the hollow clang it makes, and then he limps over to the thing himself and climbs into the cockpit to rip the wires apart again to kill the battery. He pulls too hard, nearly tearing the wires out, but the engine stills and the pandemonium dies down in a last cloud of smoke. 

In that following moment of absolute silence, anger and despair tear at Chanyeol’s chest, and he bites back a scream. “Fuck!” he says again, not even caring that his voice cracks. He slams his palms against the steering wheel, swallows a shriek as it makes his still-tender scar explode with pain. He wants to rip things apart, throw things, but he knows that’ll just make things worse. So instead he just sits there, pissed off and desperate, and grits his teeth against sobs and curses. “Fucking… _dammit_ ,” he says, voice quieter now. 

He doesn’t move even when he hears footsteps on the steps leading up to the cockpit. “Chanyeol?” comes Kyungsoo’s hesitant voice. “Hey, are you alright?”

Chanyeol lets his breath hiss out through his teeth. “I didn’t fix it.”

“Yeah...that’s what I figured.” Kyungsoo’s voice is tinged with humour, but it’s serious enough that Chanyeol knows he isn’t making fun of him. “But it almost worked, didn’t it?”

Chanyeol squeezes his eyes shut, his throat closing up. “I’ve been working on it for two months, Kyungsoo. Two _fucking_ months. And I know this was just my first try but...I’ve been here for so long. Everyone back home probably thinks I’m dead. If I never fix this damn thing, I’ll be here forever.”

Kyungsoo is quiet for a few moments, long enough that Chanyeol gives in and turns his head to look at him. He finds Kyungsoo staring at him, face blank. "What?" Chanyeol rasps.

"Nothing," Kyungsoo responds immediately. "Nothing, just. I forgot, for a while there, that you'd leave."

"What?"

"You'll be leaving. Of course. I mean, of course you'll leave."

"Kyungsoo, what are you talking about? Of course I'm going to _leave_ , if I ever fix this fucking thing, if they ever _let_ me leave. I'm a prisoner of war. What the hell would I stay for?" Chanyeol asks, confused, lost.

There's a long pause, and then Kyungsoo says, "Nothing. Of course, nothing." Kyungsoo shakes his head, lets out a short breath. "I'm sorry. Just. Never mind. Let's get this figured out, alright? Let's get this figured out, so that you can fix this thing, and then you can...leave."

Chanyeol sighs. "Okay. Yeah. I don't know, I'm kind of worn out. I really...I got my hopes up. Way too high. I don't know why I thought it would work on my first try. That never happens. I always screw up a bunch of times before I get it right."

"We'll get it," Kyungsoo says softly. He's always doing that. Saying _we_ , and _our_ , and _us_. Like he and Chanyeol are in this together. Like they're not on opposing sides.

Chanyeol likes it, too much. He likes it so much that he hates it. It makes him forget.

"Come on," Kyungsoo says, and his voice is low, gentle, careful. Chanyeol isn't sure if it's because he blew up earlier and Kyungsoo doesn't want to set him off again, or if there's another reason. He seemed so surprised about Chanyeol leaving. Like that wasn't in his plans. Like he _had_ plans, for the future and everything, and Chanyeol had been in them.

Chanyeol gets carried away a lot, where Kyungsoo is involved. It's best to put himself in his place as quickly as possible.

Chanyeol lets Kyungsoo pull him out of the cockpit, onto the ground. The engine is hot, and Chanyeol burns himself a couple times, but after an hour with his lamp digging around carefully, he finds what the problem—or one of the problems—is. It's something he could fix easily, as soon as he finds a replacement part.

He doesn't mention it to Kyungsoo.

He barely talks to Kyungsoo at all as the evening wears on and he keeps working on the Machine, lost in his own little world. He focuses on gears and belts and pistons, bars and joints and axles, and sometimes he forgets that Kyungsoo is there, watching him. Not that there's ever not someone there watching him. Chanyeol is never alone, even if he feels like it.

Holding his breath, he looks over his own, specially installed wiring system, leading from the front of the Machine to a little added contraption near the back. It's been there since the beginning of his reconstruction of the Machine; it's in his blueprints, it's in his notes. _Backup power_ , he labels it. It's been there since the beginning, and no one's asked about it.

"I think I'm going to turn in early for the night," he tells Kyungsoo as he ducks out from under the Machine. "I'm exhausted, and I can't figure out what's wrong, and...maybe some sleep will help."

"Yeah, sure," Kyungsoo says, eyes wide and blinking. "Maybe it'll clear your head."

Chanyeol nods, avoids his gaze as he settles himself onto his blanket. The nights are growing colder. He desperately wishes for a real bed. "G'night," he mumbles.

"Yeah, goodnight," Kyungsoo answers distractedly.

Ten minutes later, just as Chanyeol is finally falling asleep, he feels his second blanket shifting on top of him, moving by someone's will other than his own so that it covers his feet and is tucked under his chin. A warm hand smooths down his hair at the nape of his neck, and Chanyeol pretends he hasn't been dampening the fabric below his head with lost, frustrated tears.

At night, he dreams.

Yifan visits him first. Yifan is always visiting him, even though Chanyeol has long since stopped thinking he's coming to save him. It obviously wasn't possible. Chanyeol knows Yifan would have tried if it was possible. Maybe he did try, and just couldn't do it. That sounds like something that Yifan would do—it sounds like something that would happen to Chanyeol. Blessed with friends loyal enough to come after him, cursed enough that it wouldn't work.

They have the same conversation they always have. "Chanyeol, listen. They've done such terrible things to you. You're suffering. You're hurting."

"I mean, technically, they didn't _do_ anything to me, other than keep me here," Chanyeol argues. "They feed me, and it's not like they beat me or anything. So, there's that."

"You're a prisoner. You sleep on a cold cement floor. You were injured and didn't receive adequate treatment, but were still expected to work for them."

"I didn't actually tell them I was injured the second time," is Chanyeol's reasonable reply. "Look, Yifan, I know you're upset because I'm a prisoner and all, but you have to consider some things. They don't have any more than we do in Q-16. They can't just pull out their meager resources for someone like _me_. And we would have done the exact same thing, you know? Look at the situation. They can't let me go—they would look weak. They can't show weakness. The same way Q-16 can't show weakness. So they keep me here. They don't kill me, because I can be useful. Or at least, they're assuming I can be useful. They're doing what they think they need to do."

"You've always been too forgiving, Chanyeol," Yifan says, shaking his head.

"I've had a lot of time to think about this," Chanyeol admits. "It's better than being angry at them."

"You don't want me to kill them," Yifan says. It's not a question.

"Please don't kill them. They...they're just people. They're just trying to survive."

"But they took you," Yifan says. "They took you away."

"I don't hate them," Chanyeol says. "Don't kill them."

"But isn't that your plan?" Yifan asks, eyes wide, innocent. His words are biting, though. Accusatory. "Isn't your plan to kill them?"

"No!" Chanyeol protests, suddenly frantic. "No, no. I won't. I'm not going to."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm really not going to. Yifan, that's just a backup plan. I don't want _Q-16_ to get hurt. That's all. I don't want to kill them."

"Not wanting to and not doing it are two different things."

"I just don't want them to hurt us," Chanyeol says, shaky and scared.

Yifan levels him with a long look. Somehow, his face looks different than Chanyeol remembers it. It looks a little unfamiliar. Like Chanyeol's subconscious is forgetting what his own best friend looks like. "Chanyeol," he says calmly. He's always been so calm. Chanyeol's subconscious hasn't forgotten _that_. "One of us will be hurt in the long run. You know that, right? Us or them."

Chanyeol shakes his head. "I don't want that."

"What you want doesn't matter."

"I don't want anyone to be hurt. Why does someone have to be hurt?"

Yifan sighs. "You're very naive, Chanyeol."

"I just want...I don't want people to be hurt."

"This is just the way things are. The way the _world_ is. Us versus them. Always. And someone is going to get hurt eventually."

Chanyeol doesn't like that. He _hates_ that. "I don't want to talk to you anymore," he says, pitifully, childishly. "This dream is stupid."

"I'm sorry." And he really does look apologetic. "It's been a long time. I miss you."

"My Baekhyun dreams are more lighthearted," Chanyeol mopes.

"Sorry," Yifan says again.

"Come back next time with something less depressing to say."

"I will."

Chanyeol smiles, then opens his eyes.

The storehouse is chilly, like it always is these days at night. It's dark, and a little damp. Chanyeol can hear Kyungsoo breathing, but he's turned away from him, can't see his face. He takes a deep breath, curls up tighter against the cool night wind coming in through the barred door, and closes his eyes again.

Kyungsoo is in his dream this time. That's happening increasingly often, and usually it includes skin contact and warmth—two things Chanyeol's life is desperately lacking in, but he really shouldn't be seeking from this particular person. Still, Chanyeol's subconscious mind kind of hates him.

Today, though, there is no warmth in dream-Kyungsoo's expression. "If you never fix it, you can never leave," he tells Chanyeol, regretful, torn.

"Kyungsoo," Chanyeol says. "Kyungsoo, please. I can't stay here much longer. I don't know what I'll do if I have to stay here much longer."

"I know," Kyungsoo says, face crumpling. "Chanyeol, I'm so sorry. This isn't what I want."

"Why won't you help me?" Chanyeol asks. A question he's sometimes desperate to ask when he's awake, but knows he can't. "Kyungsoo, I know you want to help me. Why won't you?"

"You _know_ why I can't," Kyungsoo says. And Chanyeol does. (Obviously. It’s his brain conjuring this conversation.) "This is my home. Helping you would be abandoning them. I can't do that."

"I know you care about me." In Chanyeol's dreams, Kyungsoo always cares about him so goddamn much. It's hard to wake up, sometimes. "I just want to go home."

"You think I don't want to let you go? But I can't. I can't. They'd kick me out. This is my home."

"Kyungsoo," Chanyeol says suddenly, switching tones, switching trains of thought. "If I go home, we'll be enemies again. We're enemies."

"How can you say that?" Kyungsoo looks hurt, and Chanyeol feels bad. He doesn't want to hurt Kyungsoo. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, but especially not Kyungsoo. "Chanyeol, please."

"I don't want to do this anymore," Chanyeol says. Everything hurts. He just wants to go home. He wants to see his friends. He wants his mother to hold him. He wants to feel safe again.

"I don't know what to do. Please, I don't know what I can do." Kyungsoo is begging him, and Chanyeol feels so bad for hurting him. For asking too much of him.

"I know," Chanyeol says. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do."

Chanyeol wakes himself up. He doesn't want to listen anymore. He doesn't want to think about it.

He hates that all of his dreams are just his own conflicting thoughts projected onto other people—arguments he’s had in his own brain during the day, repeated at night when he’s at the mercy of his own misery. He wishes he could at least escape them in sleep, but they’re always there, waiting for him, haunting him. _Why won’t he help you?_ He can’t. _Why shouldn’t I hate them?_ They’re just doing what anyone else would do. _What if you and Kyungsoo never see each other again?_

Shut up.

By the time Chanyeol drags himself fully into consciousness, watery morning light is filtering in through the windows high in the storeroom walls. Morning light means Kyungsoo is gone. Chanyeol is grateful and disappointed at the same time—he longs for Kyungsoo’s presence, but suffers when he’s around. He wants, but he knows he can’t. 

Sighing, he stretches his sore limbs, pulls himself to his feet. It's too early for breakfast yet, so he heads straight to the Machine, picking through the wiring, the mechanics, hoping for a fresh look on things. Hoping he’ll find what’s been eluding him all this time.

"Oh," he says half an hour later, staring a very obvious problem right in the face. "Oh, that would explain all the...you know, terrible noises and smoke and stuff."

Nobody answers him. Of course.

"Oh," Chanyeol says again.

 _This is just the way things are,_ Yifan’s voice echoes in his head. _The way the_ world _is. Us versus them. Always. And someone is going to get hurt eventually._

Chanyeol has the distinct feeling it's just going to be him. Or everyone.

He fixes the Machine. But he doesn't tell Kyungsoo. He doesn't tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL!!! LOOK AT THIS AMAZING ART I RECEIVED FOR CHRISTMAS FOR THIS FIC!! [link](https://twitter.com/chansooyeol/status/814018377731608581)/ Commissioned by the amazing, incredible Bee, with the art itself drawn by the equally incredible [Jay](https://kagihana.tumblr.com). Pls show it tons of love. I'm gonna cry again. 
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	18. Chapter 18

After Jongin and Minseok’s first successful attempt at healing an actual illness, Minseok suddenly finds himself working triple shifts every day. In the morning, he’s still with the Builders, because they honestly need all the help they can get if they don’t want X-22 to freeze over the winter. In the early afternoon, he’s with Jongin in the fields, encouraging the plants to grow and prosper, to try and fill their larders and food stores. And after that, they’re all over the community, curing colds, healing infections, banishing illness and disease from plants and humans alike. Often, their help isn’t necessarily needed; the colds would go away on their own, the infections would eventually clear up in time. But they know they need the practice. Every day, they’re growing stronger, learning new things, getting better. They’re less overwhelmed each time, more prepared for what may come, more able to handle the unexpected. 

The problem is, Minseok is exhausted. He’s _exhausted_. He’s working long hours with few breaks in between, he’s pushing himself to the limit every day, and he’s not resting enough to recuperate. He’s needed in so many places at once. He’s losing steam, finally, after months and months of hard labour. 

Luhan notices. 

“I’m serious, Minseok, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Which I know isn’t true, because you sleep next to _me._ What’s going on?”

Minseok frowns and wonders if he should kiss Luhan again, because he sure as hell didn’t pry into Minseok’s private life for a while after _that._ “I’m fine,” he says. “I just had a long day.”

“More like a long _month._ You’ve been a zombie for weeks now.” Luhan shakes his head, gently takes Minseok’s hammer out of his hands. Minseok doesn’t protest. He’s hit his own thumb four times today already. “Is it your other job?” Luhan asks, voice lowered. 

Minseok sighs. He’s been feeding Luhan lies about his “other job” for weeks, and to be honest, it went from amusing to bothering him a long time ago. He used to take so much pleasure in watching Luhan light up at false information, and fumble around asking him completely suspicious questions, and squirm under scrutiny, but now Minseok is just tired. He’s tired of lying, he’s tired of maintaining a fake persona, he’s tired of messing with Luhan’s head. 

Incidentally, that change took place right around the time that Minseok _did_ kiss Luhan, back during the harvest party. He pretends not to notice the correlation. 

“They’ve been keeping me busy,” he says eventually; half-truths, as always. “It’s a lot of stress. Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about you, Minseok,” Luhan says, rolling his eyes. Then, more haltingly, “What do they have you doing right now?”

It takes Minseok a moment to go over what he’s all told Luhan about his fake other job recently, reviewing the confusing web of lies he’s spent a month spinning. He’s made it enigmatic on purpose, has tried his best to throw his cards in a way that might make Luhan crack or slip. Impressively, Luhan has done neither. He’s more patient than Minseok ever imagined he would be, quietly accepting information and filing it away with nothing more than a puzzled frown. Minseok knows he’s not giving Luhan enough information to do much with, even if he tries to give the illusion of progress, but Minseok keeps hoping Luhan will do something anyway, just so Minseok can figure out what it is he’s after and be done with him. He just wants to be done with him. 

Doesn’t he?

“Security stuff around the perimeter,” Minseok tells Luhan after a few seconds of thought. “You know, safety measures to make sure no one will come in and take our stuff.”

“Take what kind of stuff?” Luhan asks, picking up a long nail and handing it to Minseok to hold for him. It’s just the two of them working on the roof of a building right now, nailing down boards to cover a gaping hole. 

Minseok shrugs. “Anything, really. We don’t have anything to spare. Any loss would be bad.”

“What kind of safety measures?” Luhan asks, too casual and innocent to be true. 

“It’s complicated stuff. I don’t really understand it. I just install it,” Minseok says, shrugging. 

“Who does understand it, then?” Luhan asks. 

Tired, frustrated, Minseok snaps, “I don’t know, Luhan, the people in charge of that! Why are you asking so many questions?” 

Luhan stares at him, wide-eyed and taken aback. It’s the first time Minseok’s ever asked him that so bluntly. “I’m just curious,” he says, and the guilt is so clear on his face. How can he think he’s fooling anyone? “I was just wondering.”

“Stop wondering. It’ll get you in trouble,” Minseok says sharply. God, he feels awful. He’s so tired. What does Luhan want from him? What does he even _want_ Minseok to say? 

Luhan is just one more thing that’s adding to Minseok’s overall exhaustion. How dare he take up so much of Minseok’s brain space when Minseok needs that for other, more important stuff? How dare he get over his shock after Minseok kissed him so quickly, and instead spend that time staring at him, and asking him questions, and getting all up in Minseok’s space? 

How dare he tell Minseok that he might be leaving, reminding Minseok that he’s not here for good, that Minseok is forming a relationship with someone who will one day disappear from his life?

How dare he be a lying, conniving bastard, only in X-22 for secret, ulterior motives, instead of some lonely rogue that ended up in Minseok’s arms by some stroke of fate?

Fuck him, seriously. 

Minseok isn’t sure what he expects Luhan to say after that, but it definitely isn’t, “Are you sure you’re okay, Minseok? You can tell me if something’s wrong,” with his eyes all wide and earnest.

Which honestly just pisses Minseok off more, because now Luhan’s ignoring his own motives in favour of worrying about Minseok, and honestly, what the fuck is wrong with _him?_

“I’m fine,” Minseok growls. “Leave me alone.”

What business does Luhan have thinking about Minseok and looking so sincere and troubled, instead of thinking about whatever nefarious plans he has for the downfall of X-22 or whatever the hell he’s up to? What an asshole. 

Minseok takes his break early and gets as far away from Luhan as he can, brooding darkly. Maybe he needs to reevaluate his plan. Maybe he needs to start focusing more on wearing Luhan down, on getting to the bottom of why he’s in X-22 at all. Maybe that’s what he needs to stop feeling so confused all the time. 

Or maybe he just needs a fucking nap. 

He ends up doing nothing, of course, leaving Luhan in bewildered silence when he moves to sit by Jongin and Sehun for lunch rather than lingering at the Builders’ table. He sighs as he slumps into the seat next to the younger boys, resting his head on his hand and letting his tired eyes close. 

“Oh. Hello, Minseok,” says Jongin uncertainly. 

“Hi,” Minseok says, shovelling food into his mouth without opening his eyes. 

“How was your morning?” Jongin asks, his words measured, like someone suddenly put in charge of a strange child. 

“Shit,” Minseok says. “Exhausting.”

“Oh. Mine, too,” Jongin says. Minseok can hear utensils clinking against plates and bowls, and when he cracks his eyes open, Sehun and Jongin are exchanging puzzled looks. “I was working on controlling black energy, you know, just drawing it into myself and trying to get used to it and all that. But it hurts a lot and it’s really draining. Do you think I’m getting better, though?”

“Yeah, Jongin, I think you’re getting better,” Minseok says on a yawn. Sometimes he forgets how young Jongin is, how new this all is to him, how hard it is for him. He has the distinct feeling everything affects Jongin a lot differently and a lot _more_ than it affects Minseok. Transforming energy is hard for Minseok, it really is, but it’s hard in the same way holding up heavy beams is—it’s straining, it’s sometimes overwhelming, it’s physically exhausting. It can be painful, the same way physical labour can be painful. But for Jongin, it seems like it’s much more than that. He feels things more than other people feel things. And he’s just a kid, no matter how much he protests that _eighteen is the age of official adulthood among paranormals, Minseok._

Still, he’s a tough kid, dealing with way more than he should have to with no complaint. Minseok’s constantly impressed; even inspired. 

After lunch, he and Jongin get right to work, which does a pretty good job of taking Minseok’s mind off unnecessarily pretty faces and ulterior motives. After all, it’s pretty hard to think about those things when Minseok is just on this side of passing out from exhaustion, struggling to perform a skill he just started learning two and a half months ago because if he doesn’t, his community very well might starve to death. 

Yeah. That tends to do the trick. 

They work in the fields for four hours to start off, making their way through rows of struggling crops, encouraging them to grow and prosper. Whenever Jongin feels disease taking root in the plants below them, they stop a while to eradicate it, pulling the “black” energy (as Jongin has taken to calling it) out of the crops and the surrounding soil and wrapping it up with the good before banishing it. It’s usually so small, still in its beginning stages, and Minseok is perpetually amazed at how sensitive Jongin must be to detect a tiny bit of bad among all the good. Whenever he brings it up, Jongin just smiles nervously and shrugs. 

That’s how Minseok knows he feels a lot more than he lets on. 

By the time they’re done their rounds in the fields, Minseok feels just about ready to keel over, and Jongin doesn’t look like he’s in much better shape. They catch a quick nap, but they keep it short—there’s no time for lying around. Then they head out to find Boa, ask for instructions concerning healing opportunities for the day. They make quick work of a child’s fever, soothe a cook’s nasty burn, begin work on a preteen with a chronic cough. The latter is too much work for them, it’s something they’re not capable of doing in a single day yet. But it’s a challenge. It pushes them past their limits. It’s what they need in order to get better. 

They take a break for supper, and Minseok sits with Jongin again, bouncing Yejoo on his knee when she runs over from his parents’ table. He doesn’t look at Luhan. He doesn’t want to know if Luhan is looking at _him_. He’s never not sat with Luhan before. 

After supper, it’s back to work, as much as Minseok wants to go home and sleep off the exhaustion weighing on his bones. They snuff out a migraine, do away with an ear infection. By then, Jongin looks so shaky and wrung out that Minseok personally approaches Boa and asks if they can end their work day early for once.

"I honestly don't think it's safe to be dealing with something as fragile as people's bodies when we're this unstable," he says, glancing back at Jongin as the younger boy slumps against a wall, eyes fluttering closed. "We're going to start causing more harm than good."

Boa sighs, looking up from a textbook so old and tattered and faded that Minseok is impressed anyone can even read it. "Alright," she says. "Take the rest of the night off. But I want to see both of you working hard bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Yes ma'am," Minseok says. He turns, grabs Jongin by the shoulder, and leads him straight back to his house.

"We should come up with a gameplan," Jongin says, stumbling over cracked concrete. "Like, you know, a list of things to accomplish, so that we can see what kind of progress we're making. Does that make sense? Am I saying real words?"

Minseok smiles a little, guiding them between houses. "How are we supposed to plan ahead like that in our line of work, though? We can't guess what kinds of injuries and illnesses people are going to get next."

"Oh, that's right." Jongin sighs. "I just feel like we're so scattered. I don't feel like we'll be prepared if something happens."

"Prepared for what? If _what_ happens?" Minseok asks. They arrive at Jongin's house, and Minseok follows him inside; he's too tired to go back to his own house, and he's not sure he wants to see Luhan anyway. He vaguely hopes Changmin or someone is keeping him busy. 

"I don't know. Just. Bad things. A big illness. An outbreak. So many of the things I feel are still so overwhelming. I don't want that. I want to be ready to face anything that comes our way. You know?" Jongin rubs at his eyes sleepily and falls onto his bed mat in a way that looks painful. "Your wavelengths are all wonky today, by the way."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Jongin shrugs. "Your wavelengths are like my wavelengths. I'm extra sensitive to them. I can feel really small disturbances. You try to keep them hidden, but I can tell when you're upset about something."

Minseok blinks. "Can you really?"

"Yeah? Like, very clearly. I'm still not very good at sensing which disturbances refer to which negative emotions, but I can tell they're there. Or maybe you just have a headache." Jongin yawns and curls up on his bed. "Something bothering you?"

Minseok scowls. "No."

Jongin smiles a little. "You can't lie to me. We're partners."

"Nothing's bothering me," Minseok grumps, even though he's well aware it's futile. "What were you saying before about being ready for anything? What kind of stuff are you feeling that's overwhelming?"

"I dunno. It's kind of constant. I'm getting used to it, but it's always there." Jongin shrugs again.

"The raw energy?" Minseok asks, confused.

"No, no. Well, that too. But I'm getting good at dealing with that. It's the, the black energy. That's more overwhelming."

"And you feel that...a lot?" Minseok asks. "Here?"

Jongin nods. "Yeah. You know. From Chanyeol's workshop."

Now Minseok is _really_ confused. " _Who's?_ "

"Chan— Oh." Jongin's eyes open, and he looks sheepish and guilty. "Oops."

"What? What are you not telling me, Jongin?" Minseok asks, frown deepening. "Is there some lurking danger that I don't know about?"

Jongin sits up, picks at a hangnail agitatedly. "No, not. Not...exactly. It's just, well. I'm not supposed to talk about it, because I guess it's a secret, but I can probably tell _you_ , right?"

"Tell me," Minseok says immediately, because goddammit, if there's something awful they're going to have to deal with at some point, he wants to be well prepared for it.

"Well, the thing is, I'm always feeling all this black energy, because Chanyeol's workshop is _filled_ with it. Muted, you know, old, but it's always there. Plus, he's always kind of depressed and stuff, so that adds to it." Jongin talks fast, like he doesn't want to be caught explaining this out loud.

"What workshop? Who the hell is Chanyeol?"

Jongin points out his window, facing north. Minseok looks out and sees, in the distance, an old, eerie-looking building out in the fields, the wall face vacant and foreboding. "Someone's _in_ there?" Minseok asks. "One of our guys?"

"Well...not exactly," Jongin says uncertainly.

Minseok goes a little cold. He's not one to be superstitious, but if Jongin is telling him there's a ghost or some shit in there, he's going to—

"Chanyeol's kind of...a prisoner? Fixing some kind of death machine?" Jongin says, wincing.

Minseok stares at him. "What?"

"Yeah... It's pretty awful." Jongin smiles uncomfortably. "I didn't even know we _had_ prisoners in X-22. But apparently we do? Well, just the one as far as I know. I'm not supposed to know at all. But I found out, because Kyungsoo is Sehun's brother and he works the night shift as a guard, and also Chanyeol was having a really rough time for a while and I could totally feel it all the way from here. He's been there for months, though. Just, you know, fixing away."

Minseok gapes. Prisoners. A prisoner of _war_ , most likely. In X-22. "How long has he been here?"

Jongin frowns. "I don't know. Probably a little longer than I've been friends with Sehun, since that's when Kyungsoo started working nights. So...maybe two and half months? He probably came right around the time that you became my partner, actually."

"Oh, god," Minseok says. Two and a half months.

That's when Luhan showed up, asking about X-22's prisoners. Which Minseok _hadn't thought existed._

Luhan isn't here to undermine X-22. He's here on a goddamn rescue mission.

"Minseok? Are you okay?" Jongin asks, concern clear on his face. "I mean, I was pretty shocked too. Isn't it terrible? No one likes it. But Sehun explained it to me a little. It's all politics. It's not like they _want_ to keep prisoners. But they feel like they have to, you know. For strategical purposes. I don't really get it, but I'm a pacifist." He laughs uncomfortably.

Minseok's barely listening. They have a real, actual prisoner. In X-22. And Luhan's been trying to figure out how to get him out all this time. And Minseok's been messing with him all along but fuck, trying to save your comrade in arms is a pretty valid reason for sneaking into a community and lying for months on end. And Minseok's just been feeding him bullshit.

Luhan is going to be so fucking pissed when he finds out. _Shit._

"Minseok?" Jongin asks again.

"Go to sleep," Minseok says briskly. "Just...don't worry about it. I'm just processing." He hisses out a breath. "I can't believe this."

"I know," Jongin agrees, lying down on his bed mat. "Anyway. Thanks for getting us the evening off."

"Sure," Minseok says, distracted. "Sleep well." And then he walks out, into the cool evening air.

God _dam_ mit. What's he supposed to do now? Pretend he doesn't know anything? Pretend he doesn't know that X-22 is keeping prisoners of war, and keep lying to Luhan to keep it from him, too? Pretend he doesn't know what Luhan is after?

He's spent so long assuming Luhan is here to screw everyone over. And now, suddenly, he feels as if his loyalties are being divided. Who's side is he on? His community's, his home, his _family_ , who obviously have a reason for doing what they've done?

Or Luhan's, who's become important to Minseok without him even realizing it, who can't lie to save his life but is risking it anyway for a friend?

Minseok doesn't return to his house—his and _Luhan's_ house—until he's certain his roommate must be sleeping. He doesn't think he'll sleep at all himself, weighed down with guilt on all sides, but eventually exhaustion beats all, and he falls asleep watching Luhan's rising and falling chest next to him, unsure where he's going to go from here.

He can't betray his own community. He _can't._

But at the same time, the only thing keeping him from telling Luhan right now is the fact that he knows Luhan is going to rip him a new one when he finds out what Minseok has been doing to him all this time.

Minseok is worse of a person than he ever thought Luhan was.

***

Baekhyun’s room is cold. For months after resurfacing, every room in Q-16 was stiflingly hot every single day, and now, suddenly, it’s cold in Baekhyun’s room, and it’s damp because it’s been drizzling outside all day, and his skin feels all sticky and clammy, and Baekhyun is grumpy as hell. He knows it’s nothing compared to what it will be when winter finally arrives, but Baekhyun already hates it. 

Burrowed under his blanket, Baekhyun mopes all day, despite Yixing’s many attempts to draw him out into the land of the living. Jongdae’s been busy recently, back at work as a Builder, and Baekhyun’s memories have stalled anyway, suddenly becoming repetitive and useless, so he doesn’t see much of his friend. Liyin’s really been pushing the physio recently, so Baekhyun is sore all over and wants to die. It’s been a bad week. 

"Come on, Baek, you can't stay in there forever," Yixing says, sitting in his chair next to Baekhyun's bed. "You do know it won't make you feel better, right?"

"It might," Baekhyun says, pulling his blanket over his head.

"It won't," Yixing says, his voice lilting with humour. He lifts up the corner of Baekhyun's blanket, but instead of pulling it away, he merely sticks his head under it. Baekhyun can't see his face in the darkness, but he can assume it's fairly close to his own. It doesn't really bother him. "You should come out. Stretch a little."

"I don't want to stretch. Stretching hurts," Baekhyun says with a pout. "Physio hurts. I don't want to."

"It wouldn't be physio. It'd just be using your muscles a little. Isn't it the good kind of pain? Like when you're getting a massage and it hurts like hell but you know it's making things better?"

"No," Baekhyun says, but he can feel himself caving, just a little. "Although, now that you mention massages..."

Yixing laughs. "I don't think so. Come on, Baekhyun."

"It's cold," Baekhyun argues.

"It's not _that_ cold. You're just chilled because you're not moving around at all."

"That's not why! You're making that up so that I'll get up."

Yixing chuckles, and Baekhyun can feel his warm breath on his throat. He could reach out and touch Yixing's face, if he wanted to. Not that he does. Want to, that is. "Why do you think I want you to get up?"

"Because you're evil," Baekhyun mutters.

"Try again."

"Because Liyin bribes you to harass me?"

"Wrong again. However, she and I do have the same motives," Yixing says. He flips the cover off of both of them at last, letting cool, damp air rush over them. Baekhyun shivers. "We both just want you to get better and _feel_ better. Physically _and_ emotionally. Lying around and not being able to do anything is bound to make you miserable. Getting up and retraining your muscles is the best way to be able to do stuff again. Don't you want that?"

Baekhyun sighs, curling up tighter on his bed mat. "But it's so _hard_ ," he says.

"I know," Yixing says, chin on his folded arms, smiling gently at him. He really is quite close.

"I always stumble and fall around and hurt myself," Baekhyun complains. "Not only is it painful, but it's _humiliating._ I'm a goddamn child."

"I hope you're not embarrassed because of me," Yixing says. "Because I don't think you have anything to be embarrassed about. If anything, I think you're really, incredibly strong."

Baekhyun makes a face. "Yeah, so impressive. Finally learning how to walk again after getting myself blown up in my first ever military encounter. One teeny tiny baby step at a time."

"I think that's _really_ impressive," Yixing says. "It takes babies a whole year or more to learn how to walk."

"Are you comparing me to a baby?" Baekhyun asks with a sigh.

Yixing rolls his eyes. "No. I'm saying you're only human. Your body's doing the best it can. You just have to do what _you_ can to help it along."

Baekhyun grumbles. "I think you're just trying to cause me pain," he says, but Yixing's always been better at convincing him to do things he doesn't want to than anyone else. He just has a way of doing it so that Baekhyun ends up thinking it'll really make him feel better about himself.

"Come on," Yixing says, smiling like he already knows he's won. Bastard. "Let's go for a walk."

Baekhyun makes a pitiful whimpering sound as a last ditch effort at getting out of this, but Yixing is already pulling gently on his hand, encouraging him to sit up and swing his feet over the side of his bed. Baekhyun's head spins a little, and for a second he thinks he won't be able to do this, but then the vertigo dissipates and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Yixing holds onto both of his hands, rubbing his thumbs into Baekhyun's skin. "Up you get," he says, moving his hands to Baekhyun's forearms for better leverage as he painstakingly gets to his feet. He wobbles for a moment, his legs weak and his balance shitty, but at this point he's a decent stander. It's all the stuff after that that he's not so good at.

Usually, he gets frustrated immediately, often tearfully so, angry that his legs won't listen to his brain and that his body is so broken, but today, Yixing is smiling so encouragingly, and he's holding onto Baekhyun so tightly. This isn't a test. It's not his nurse expecting to see progress. It's not anything. It's just Yixing wanting him to feel better.

Baekhyun tries to feel better, just to make him happy.

"Come on," Yixing says, smiling, walking backwards and holding onto him. "That's it."

Baekhyun smiles back despite himself, taking wobbly steps forwards. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but one foot goes in front of the other, his weight shifts, and he walks. His muscles are straining, protesting after not being used for most of the day, but he pushes onwards, fingers curling around Yixing's forearms.

They don't really talk much. That's one thing Baekhyun has learned to enjoy. Not talking. With Chanyeol in the past, and with Jongdae now, his friendships have always been all about constant chatter, pestering, joking around. But with Yixing, it's very different. He's learned to appreciate quiet companionship. Baekhyun still has trouble communicating verbally at times, stumbling over words and forgetting what he's saying in the middle of sentences, but with Yixing it's never a problem. He just stays quiet. He smiles, or he frowns, or he flinches, and Yixing understands. A touch, a gesture, a wordless sound. Sometimes that's all they need between them. Baekhyun has learned to do without nonstop dialogue.

"I feel a little like we're dancing," Yixing says softly, smiling, leading Baekhyun around his room. He starts to hum a gentle tune.

Baekhyun chuckles. "Some dance," he says, barely more than a murmur. There's a calmness to the room that Baekhyun doesn't want to break. His room is often silent, unless Jongdae is around, and usually it feels oppressive. But Yixing seems to be kind of magic in more ways than one.

"What, you didn't dance like this in your bunker?" Yixing asks with a teasing little grin. They sway from side to side, but it's not on purpose. Baekhyun laughs.

After a moment, his laughter turns to a sigh. "Do you think I'll ever be able to walk normally again? On my own?"

"Of course," Yixing says, hands warm on Baekhyun's skin. "You're stubborn. You won't let this keep you down."

Baekhyun smiles. "You know me pretty well."

"I do," Yixing agrees.

It's quiet for a minute after that as they walk, with Yixing still humming on and off, and Baekhyun concentrating on keeping his balance, not relying on Yixing more than he has to. He closes his eyes, shuffles forwards a few more steps, and when he opens them, Yixing is smiling at him.

"Knock knock," says a sudden voice, and Baekhyun wobbles as he turns in surprise to his door. Joonmyun is standing there, leaning against the frame like he's been waiting for a bit, holding a tray containing two bowls of stew.

"Oh. Hi," Baekhyun says. He feels weirdly flustered, knowing that Joonmyun was watching them. It's not like they were doing anything _embarrassing._ They were just walking.

But still. It had been sort of...intimate? Baekhyun doesn't know.

He expects Joonmyun to be frowning at them regardless, because he's always frowning in his jealousy or whatever, but today he's...smiling. He's smiling, just a little, soft and fond. "Here," he says, holding out the tray.

"I'll take it," Yixing says, carefully letting go of Baekhyun and making sure he's steady on his feet before he walks to Joonmyun and takes the tray from him. "Thanks, Joon."

"No problem," Joonmyun says, holding onto Yixing's arm briefly before letting go and retreating into their room. Just a small gesture, a familiar touch, saying _I'm here for you, I care for you._

Baekhyun's becoming increasingly familiar with those kinds of touches, given so freely by Yixing throughout the day.

"Here, take my arm," Yixing says, taking his place next to Baekhyun and offering his elbow. "Lean on me as much as you need."

"I'm okay," Baekhyun says, but he curls his fingers around Yixing's arm anyway, because he's not dumb, and Yixing feels steady and reassuring regardless. He walks slowly, sliding his bare feet across the floor on his way back to his bed, and Yixing keeps pace beside him, tray of steaming food in his hands.

They're almost back to where they started when Baekhyun stumbles unexpectedly, his knee giving out when he shifts his weight onto it, pitching forwards with a surprised sound. He reaches out automatically, and his fingers close around the edge of the tray. It starts to tip towards him, hot bowls of stew sliding along smooth plastic, and then suddenly jerks back, dragging Baekhyun upright with it.

It all happened so quickly, Baekhyun barely even registered it. But now, suddenly, he finds himself pressed against Yixing's side, clinging to him, as stew drips down the other man's front. "Oh, geez," Baekhyun says, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Yixing blinks at him, looking equally shocked, and then he smiles. "I'm fine. Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm...perfect. I'm so sorry, does it hurt? Are you burnt? This is my fault...you didn't have to do that for me." Baekhyun winces guiltily.

Yixing just laughs, moving to set down the tray on Baekhyun's bedside table without letting go of him. Only half of the stew remains in the bowls, but Yixing doesn't seem to care that the rest is staining his clothes. He loops a steadying arm around Baekhyun's waist and supports his weight without complaint. "I'm okay," he says again, quietly. "I just didn't want you to be hurt."

"It would have been my own fault," Baekhyun says ruefully. He's practically plastered against Yixing's front, but he can't bring himself to care, staring into his face as his heartbeat slows.

"I'm just glad you're alright," Yixing tells him, and his voice is so soft, his smile so sincere. Baekhyun's heart aches. What did he ever do to deserve this? "Do you think this counts as a sacrifice?" Yixing asks, voice teasing.

And Baekhyun doesn't really know what he means, but he smiles anyway, feeling Yixing's calmness wash over him, soothe him. His unending kindness, his genuine thoughtfulness and utter lack of bitterness. He's such a good person. So much better than Baekhyun. And here he is, metaphorically taking the fall for him, and then worrying about Baekhyun instead of himself. What did Baekhyun do to deserve him?

Yixing's eyes are soft and warm and affectionate, so much so that Baekhyun's heart beats a little faster without him really even noticing it. Without a moment's hesitation, Yixing leans in and kisses his cheek, so softly, so sweetly. Baekhyun's heart pounds harder.

Yixing pulls away, just an inch, and Baekhyun turns and kisses him back, right on the mouth.

Everything hangs in suspension for a long, breathless second, and Baekhyun's heart stops, and he doesn't move, thinking he's messed everything up, this wasn't what Yixing was after, he's just ruined everything, and—

Yixing reciprocates with a sigh, holding Baekhyun tight against him as a shiver sweeps through his body.

"Thank god," Yixing whispers against his lips, fingers curling in Baekhyun's clothes. "I really had no idea what we were going to do for the next steps."

"What?" Baekhyun says, and then he forgets all about it and kisses Yixing again, because god, that feels nice. It all feels so nice, and so _right._ Their lips slide together, their breaths intermingle, and Baekhyun feels the tip of a tongue trace along his skin, drawing a shudder from him. He'd kissed Yixing completely on impulse, had never even consciously thought about it before that moment (though subconsciously was another matter entirely), but it had just felt so right. It still does, and he sinks into it, leaning against Yixing completely, looping his arms around Yixing's neck, feeling the kiss deep in his bones.

Yixing hums contentedly, making no move to pull away or push Baekhyun off, and Baekhyun feels a little bit like singing.

“Sorry, am I—” Yixing begins.

“No,” Baekhyun mutters hastily, catching Yixing’s soft lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it to draw out a quiet sound that makes Baekhyun’s stomach do flips. 

Yixing’s mouth is soft but insistent, one hand in Baekhyun’s hair tilting his head for easier access, the other pressing into his waist, pulling him tight against Yixing’s front. Baekhyun clings helplessly, his brain an unhelpful pile of mush. All he can do is whimper and try his best to stay upright and keep kissing despite how dizzy he feels, how dazed. His heart speeds along in his chest, skipping a beat every time Yixing makes a noise or kisses him harder, and Baekhyun just _dies._

He doesn't know what this is, exactly, doesn't know what's going to happen from here, but goddammit, he's not going to think about it too hard, because this is wonderful. And honestly, if someone likes him enough to kiss him, even in his shitty, broken state, then Baekhyun will damn well take it.

***

Kyungsoo is asleep when Boa finds out that Chanyeol has fixed the Machine. 

He doesn’t know how she finds out. Because Kyungsoo sure as hell didn’t know, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have told her. But one day, three weeks after Chanyeol’s first attempt at turning the thing on, Kyungsoo wakes up and Seulgi is at his door. 

“Wake up,” she says, eyes flicking anxiously behind her. “It’s about the prisoner.”

“Chanyeol?” Kyungsoo says immediately, bolting upright. His heart stutters. 

Seulgi huffs out a short breath. “Yeah. God, Soo, I— I don’t know what to say.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” Kyungsoo asks. Fear clutches at his chest. “Is he okay?”

“The prisoner? I mean, I guess so. For now.” Seulgi gives him an odd look. 

“What are you talking about? What happened?” Blood rushes in Kyungsoo’s ears. Vaguely, it registers that Seulgi’s supposed to be on shift right now. Why is she here?

“He fixed it. And…it’s not what we thought it was.”

“What?” Kyungsoo’s head spins. “When did he fix it?”

“A while ago, apparently.” Seulgi shakes her head. “But that’s not what’s important.”

“What is it?” Kyungsoo asks. He pictures the Machine, menacing in its size alone, armed with blades and chains. What else could it possibly be than something designed to destroy, to kill? 

“I don’t really know,” Seulgi admits. “But it’s not for people. It’s for...plants.”

“It’s— What?”

“It’s for plants. It’s farm equipment.” Seulgi lets out a short, tired breath. “Boa isn’t happy. At all.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Kyungsoo says vaguely. His mind is spinning in a million different directions. On the one hand, he knows their community leaders had really been setting their hopes on the Machine, hoping it would give them the upper hand they needed to get enough land to keep their people fed. He knows how crushingly disappointing this must be for them. But at the same time, all he can think about is Chanyeol. It’s been fixed for days now, weeks maybe, and he hasn’t told Kyungsoo? _Why?_

“It gets worse, though,” Seulgi says, fidgeting. “Way worse.”

“How?” Kyungsoo asks, dread pooling in his stomach. He doesn’t know if he wants to know. 

Seulgi swallows visibly. “He rigged it.”

Kyungsoo is absolutely struck dumb. He doesn’t know what to say. Or think. “What?” 

“I don’t know the details, but he rigged the Machine. To, I don’t know, explode or something. It would have been really dangerous if no one had caught it. Deadly.” Seulgi looks breathless, almost as shocked as Kyungsoo feels. Kyungsoo knows she’s not lying. 

But— “He wouldn’t do that,” Kyungsoo says, shaking his head numbly. “There must have been a mistake.”

“Kyungsoo, he’s a prisoner. Of course he would do that. He’s the enemy, no matter how...friendly he acted with you.” Her gaze is sympathetic. She pities him. 

“You don’t know Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo insists. “Seulgi, really, he wouldn’t—”

“Maybe _you_ don’t know him, Soo,” Seulgi says. “He lied to you. Whatever he told you, it wasn’t true.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Go see for yourself, then,” Seulgi says. “That thing would have blown our community to bits.”

Fear squeezes at Kyungsoo’s lungs, constricts his throat. He can’t believe it. He _won’t_. “Where is he?”

“Same place he always is,” Seulgi says, and Kyungsoo scrambles out of bed and takes off.

The Machine is sitting outside of the storehouse when Kyungsoo arrives, on the other side of the wall-sized overhead door that he’s never seen open before, always kept tightly closed under lock and key. It looks the same as it always does; as deadly and ominous, even in its ramshackle state. Kyungsoo suddenly hates the sight of it. 

There’s a team of people clustered around the main door, talking in hushed, urgent tones—mostly Kyungsoo’s fellow soldiers, blasters on their hips. Boa is among them, hard-faced and tired. 

“I want to talk to him,” Kyungsoo says, blunt and straightforward. “Where is he?”

Boa looks up at him in surprise. “Kyungsoo?”

“Where _is_ he?” Kyungsoo demands. 

His leader’s jaw clenches, but her head jerks towards the door. Kyungsoo walks straight for it, heart in his throat, and pulls roughly on the bars. The chain keeping it closed clangs against the rusted metal. “Chanyeol?” he says. 

Inside, shadowed by gloom, are two soldiers, blasters up and pointed at Chanyeol, who sits against a wall, knees drawn up, head hung between them. He looks up at the sound of Kyungsoo’s voice. His lip is split, crusted with blood, and there’s a bruise blooming on his cheek. Kyungsoo wants to throw up. 

“Let me in,” Kyungsoo says, leaving no room for argument. “ _Now._ ” 

The two soldiers glance at each other, and then one walks to the door, key in hand. It’s Seungwan—Kyungsoo grew up with her. She unlocks the door, and Kyungsoo pushes in, ignoring her startled noise as the door pushes back against her. 

“Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo repeats, dropping to one knee a meter away. “What the hell is going on?”

Chanyeol’s eyes are wide, wild, a little wet. “Kyungsoo, I wasn’t going to— You have to know, I would never hurt you.”

“What? Chanyeol, Seulgi told me you rigged it. Is that true?” Kyungsoo asks. _Please say no,_ a voice chants in his head. _Please, god, say they were wrong._

But Chanyeol just stares at him, swallows hard, and says, “I wasn’t going to use it.”

“What the _hell_ , Chanyeol!” Kyungsoo bursts out, startling everyone. “What the fuck were you thinking? What, you were just going to blow us all up, and walk away unscathed?”

“No one was supposed to get hurt,” Chanyeol says, shaking his head. “I was protecting my community, Kyungsoo. I didn’t want them to get hurt, either.”

“We weren’t going to use it on your fucking community! That was the deal!”

“What, and I was supposed to believe that? That you’d never lie to me?” Chanyeol asks, face clouding over with pain and frustration. 

“I never expected you to lie to _me_ ,” Kyungsoo says. He feels sick to his stomach. “But look where we are now.”

Chanyeol lets out a shuddering breath. “I never would have hurt you, Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo closes his eyes, quashes a wave of sickeningly intense emotion. “I don’t know what to say, Chanyeol.”

“Kyungsoo,” calls another voice—Boa’s. “I need to speak with you. Step away from him.”

Legs shaky, Kyungsoo stands, and he sees, again, the blasters pointed at Chanyeol’s head. His heart skips a beat. “Don’t kill him,” he says, urgency pulsing through his veins. 

“What?” 

“Don’t— Don’t kill him.” It strikes him, suddenly, that that’s most likely what they’ll do. They have no use for Chanyeol now. They’re going to kill him. 

“Kyungsoo, he was going to—”

“No.” Kyungsoo takes a deep breath. He doesn’t even want to think about that. “We— We don’t know what else he’s done. Don’t kill him yet.”

It’s silent for a moment, and then Victoria speaks up from nearby, saying, “He has a point.”

Chanyeol looks up at him with hurt in his eyes. 

“Kyungsoo, step outside. We need to talk,” Boa says, voice cold. 

He does as he’s ordered, leaving Chanyeol behind him, head still spinning. “What,” he says, swallowing thickly. 

“I’m taking you off guard duty.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

Boa’s eyes are wary, unrelenting. “You won’t be guarding our prisoner anymore. I can’t trust you to perform the job at this point.”

“I—I didn’t know about it! I didn’t know anything!” Kyungsoo protests, his whole body going cold. 

“I’m not saying you did. However, all of this happened under your watch, _and_ I have other reasons to...have reservations.” Boa sighs. “Victoria’s putting you back on active soldier duty.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to doubt your loyalties, Kyungsoo. So prove them. We need the Valley more than ever now, and with the knowledge that the Machine won’t be aiding us in that victory, we need all the men and women we can get out there. We’re sending out a battalion tomorrow morning. Spend the evening learning the maneuvers and strategies and be ready to go by dawn.”

Kyungsoo swallows hard. What is he supposed to do? God, _what can he do?_

“Yes ma’am,” he says thickly. 

“Good. You’re dismissed. I don’t want to see you around this building anymore in the future.”

Kyungsoo glances through the barred door and sees Chanyeol staring back at him, lip bleeding, eyes shining. A cold fist squeezes his stomach. What can he do? “Yes ma’am,” he rasps. 

He turns and walks away. 

 

Several days go by in a vague blur. Kyungsoo feels like he’s only ever half there. He doesn’t hear about Chanyeol. He doesn’t see him. He still thinks about him—of course he does, how could he not? But he barely gets a chance to linger before he’s being whisked away, ordered to do this, be there. Stand down, arms up. He’s a soldier again. He’s fighting in battles again. Vicious battles—people are getting hurt, even if they’re not being killed. Q-16 is desperate to win rights to the Valley. X-22 is desperate as well. Neither gives up. 

He’s in armed encounters every day. He’s forced to switch his sleep schedule completely on the turn of a dime, and it messes with his head. He’s exhausted. He’s a ghost. He barely eats, barely sees his family, barely _lives_. But he takes time to think about Chanyeol. Wonder if he’s okay. Wonder if he’s _alive._

Chanyeol once told him that if Kyungsoo was ever taken off guard duty, then he should ask his community to kill him. He’d forgotten about that. Did he do the wrong thing, begging them to keep him alive?

A week passes, and then, without warning, Kyungsoo is called into Boa’s office. “What do you know about this, Kyungsoo?”

On the table in front of her is Chanyeol’s puzzle box. It pains Kyungsoo to see it. It strikes cold fear inside him. “What?”

“We found it among the prisoner’s tools and things. He seemed reluctant to part with it. What do you know about it?” Boa’s face is calm, but her eyes are hard, searching. 

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know what it is.”

Boa’s lips twist. “You never saw him using it before?”

He doesn’t know what to say. Did Chanyeol tell them anything? Will he be caught in a lie? Do they know Kyungsoo’s the one who returned it to him?

“I saw him tinkering with different things in the evenings. It was just a harmless pastime. An old toy. I think he was just trying to see if he could open it,” he says, shrugging, trying to keep his face from showing too much. 

“Why? What’s inside?” Boa asks him. 

“I don’t know,” Kyungsoo says honestly. “I never thought there was _anything_ inside. I don’t think he thought so, either.”

“You never thought he was rigging the Machine, either,” Boa says coldly. 

It feels like a punch to the gut. Kyungsoo still tries not to think about that. That Chanyeol put his entire community in danger. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

Several other people come in. Seulgi and Joohyun both don’t know anything about the box—Chanyeol never played around with it while they were on duty. Several of X-22’s own Menders come in—not nearly as skilled or experienced as Chanyeol, though they do what they can—and they can’t figure it out, either. From somewhere, a flat-headed screwdriver is produced. Then a hammer. Kyungsoo watches with a certain sense of dread as all of Chanyeol’s hard work goes to waste, with each wall of the box being hacked away piece by piece. Finally, a crevice in the structure is found. The screwdriver is slid into it, and millimetre by millimetre, it’s pried open. 

A wisp of black smoke snakes out and dissipates in the room. Nothing else happens. Kyungsoo waits, but there’s no explosion. There’s no alarm. The room is silent.

“Should we bust it all the way open?” asks one of the Menders tentatively. “The screwdriver went all the way through. Seems like it’s empty.”

Boa sighs. “Put it aside. We’ll deal with it later.”

The Mender shrugs and sets the box down, and most of the room clears out. Kyungsoo doesn’t move, sitting in one of Boa’s chairs, feeling numb. “How’s he doing?” he hears himself ask, staring at the floor. 

Boa’s voice is hard. “Why do you want to know? He’s not under your care anymore.”

Kyungsoo looks up at her, knowing his gaze is as dead as he feels. “He was under my care for almost three months. I want to know how he is.”

“He’s fine,” Boa tells him shortly. 

“So he’s alive,” Kyungsoo says dryly. “And nothing else, I’m assuming.”

“You do realize he tried to sabotage our community, don’t you, Kyungsoo? You could have died. Your family and friends could have died.”

Kyungsoo swallows hard. He does know that. It sits at the back of his throat, bitter; it knots his stomach, makes him sick. “He’s still a person,” he argues, voice rough. “He still deserves to be treated like it.”

Boa stays silent, giving him a long, hard stare. Kyungsoo stares back, feeling heavy and hot with frustration, anger, confusion. He doesn’t know what to feel. 

And then the door bursts open, and Jongin is standing there, wild-eyed, panting. “What happened?”

“What?” Kyungsoo says, blinking in shock. 

“Holy— Holy _shit_ ,” Jongin says, breathless, shrinking back. “What _happened_ in here?”

“Nothing happened,” Boa says slowly, looking worried. “Jongin, what are you talking about?”

“Something really, _really_ awful just started flooding out of here. Practically knocked me out,” Jongin says, eyes wide. “I think it’s— I think it’s the plague.”

Kyungsoo’s heart stops. “What?”

Jongin shakes his head. “It’s either the plague or something just as bad.” He looks around, his eyes tracking something Kyungsoo can’t see. They land on Chanyeol’s puzzle box. “It’s coming from there. Oh, god. God. It’s going to kill us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh
> 
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	19. Chapter 19

The sickness spreads fast. 

By the time Jongin has recovered enough from the punch to the gut of black energy flooding out of the community center and fetched Minseok from where he’s busy Building, it’s found its way into Kyungsoo and Boa both, sneaking into the body through mouths and noses, clinging to palms and fingertips. Thankfully, it takes longer than that to take root. He and Minseok are able to expel it from their bodies with minimal effort, aided by the considerable practice they’ve had in the past weeks. Jongin thanks fate fervently for his own paranoia. 

Still, the sickness moves much faster than Jongin does. It’s everywhere, tendrils of dense black energy seeping through the cracks in doors, snaking along the ground, searching for a host. It suffuses through the air, growing in size but barely weakening in intensity, taking up more and more space, spreading through X-22 with terrifying efficiency. Jongin can feel it, so strongly that he can barely feel anything else, can barely hear when people are talking to him, can barely sense his own physical and mental well-being. 

But that’s not important. He tells Boa to seal up the puzzle box as well as they can, and then give a community-wide order for everyone to stay in their own houses, to leave only when necessary. He doesn’t care about the fine details; he just needs everyone to stay separated as much as possible, isolated. The disease spreads even more efficiently through contact than through the air. He knows, in his heart, that it will barely save anyone time. But he wants to hope it will do something. 

After that, he and Minseok start working. Jongin feels at a loss, surrounded by so much bad that it completely blots out the good, almost convinces him that it’s impossible that any good energy even exists beneath it. But it does—it’s there in the ground, in the plants still growing in the fields, in the people still thrumming with good health. Beside him, Minseok is strong, as strong as Jongin, his wavelengths pure and veritably ringing with clarity through their connection. It gives Jongin something to hold onto, an anchor in this storm. They move through the community, and find people who already have pools of black energy collecting inside them. They banish them as quickly as they can, and Jongin wants to think it’s helping. Wants to think it’s buying them time. But he doesn’t know. 

When the plague struck the first time, communities retreated, one by one, back underground to escape it. Jongin was just a baby, so he doesn’t remember it at all, but he’s heard the stories. It had been hard on the sorcerers of Delta, who felt the sickness even when it wasn’t inside them. They’d retreated to their bunker much earlier than other, non-paranormal communities. But they’d still felt the effects. It followed them down underground, only disappeared at last when every infected person either died or recovered. Jongin had been one to recover. His parents had not. 

He tries not to think about that. He won’t let more children turn to orphans at the hands of this sickness. He _won’t._

But they don’t have that option now. They all left their bunkers only as a last resort. None of them could stay there anymore. Broken ventilation, mold in the air ducts, generators completely shot—nothing could be done about their old homes. They’d been forced to move forwards, and there’s no turning back now. Nowhere to hide this time.

He’s so out of it, so far removed from his own body, so lost in the black cloud swirling around him, that he doesn’t realize he’s breaking down until Minseok puts his hands on Jongin’s shoulders and forces him into a chair. It takes Jongin a second, still, to notice that he’s shaking and crying and breathing quick and shallow. 

“Jongin, calm down. You can’t help anyone where you’re like this,” Minseok says. His voice is steady, his face set, but Jongin can see the fear in his eyes, can feel the horror on his wavelengths, erratic and cold. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongin hiccups. “I think I’m just a little overloaded.”

“I think you’re a _lot_ overwhelmed, because apparently our community is under dire threat and you feel like it’s all on you to keep them alive,” Minseok says. Jongin shudders and crumples, held up only by his partner’s hands. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Jongin says, breath hitching uncontrollably. 

“None of us do. Okay? It’s not fair that you’re the only one that can feel any of this stuff going on, but it’s how it is. So we have to keep it together. And we’re just going to keep going until we can’t anymore. That’s all they can ask of us. Right?”

Jongin makes a sound between a sob and a whimper. “My parents died trying to save me from this, Minseok.”

Minseok sighs, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re not going to die, Jongin.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. There’s—I don’t think there’s enough good energy here to fight all the bad. It’s just not enough.”

Minseok gives him a long, steady look. He obviously doesn’t know what to do, either. But all he says is, “Let’s just keep going until we can’t anymore.”

If nothing else, Jongin appreciates having orders. He appreciates having direction. Something he knows he can do. Something to focus on apart from the inevitability of death, of extinction. 

Time passes in a haze. Jongin has no concept of it; his day is just one long blur of dark and light. Sickness and healing. Despair and threads of hope. 

It’s Minseok who finally says, “Is it just me or is it getting harder every time?”

Jongin pauses, feels, and nods. They’re standing in front of a middle-aged woman, one of the older members of the community, but still too young to die. Far too young. But the disease doesn’t discriminate; it already has a strong grip around her throat, pressing down into her stomach. Jongin’s first attempt to pull it out fell through. It holds on too tightly. 

It’s moving fast, and it’s growing roots. 

“We can still do it,” he says, even though he can see his hands shaking, can feel how weak his limbs are, how tight and sore his lungs feel. He’s exhausted. 

He tries again anyway. Pulls energy up from the ground, forces it into Minseok’s body with the black energy that floods into him with ease. He goes and goes and goes; keeps going until it’s all gone. The past weeks have taught him a lesson in working past the point of exhaustion. 

They manage to heal the woman, but Jongin feels on the edge of collapse. He has to take a break, falling asleep in the corner of the room despite the panic that pounds at his head, unable to resist the pull of unconsciousness. Minseok joins him, but he only knows because he wakes up to the feeling of a warm body leaning against his, a head on his shoulder, an arm slung around his waist. Jongin basks in the simple comfort of it, draws energy from it. Touch is healing. That’s the first thing you learn in a paranormal community. He’s been deprived these past months, despite Sehun’s willingness to hold his hand and share a bed. Now, he only allows himself to soak it up for one minute. 

Then they get up, and keep working. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he says to Minseok. It’s getting dark out. He’s not even sure if it’s the first time. He feels completely lost, like a ghost roaming the streets of X-22, only living in the most basic definition of the word. “It’s too much. It’s too much. I don’t know what I can do.”

The pockets of good energy feel so far away. So inaccessible. Everything is black and cold and thick, filling up his lungs, pushing sluggish through his veins. It hasn’t taken hold in him yet—can’t, when he’s constantly purging it from himself as well as others—but it threatens to, relentless. It wants to. He almost wants to let it. 

“We’ll just keep going as long as we can,” Minseok tells him again. “Go get some sleep, Jongin. We’ll start again when we wake up.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Jongin says, suddenly desperate. “Please.”

“Go to Sehun’s,” Minseok says gently, pushing him in the direction of home. “I have someone I need to talk to.”

“What if it takes over while I’m asleep?” Jongin asks weakly. 

“Then there’s nothing we can do about it. Go, Jongin. We can’t work anymore tonight.”

“Okay,” Jongin whispers. 

Sehun’s asleep in his house, but he rouses when Jongin walks up to his beside, wordlessly lifts the corner of his blanket to invite him underneath. Jongin is unspeakably grateful, curling up next to him. 

Sehun’s wavelengths are still pure, strong, familiar. The sickness hasn’t taken him yet. Jongin takes some small comfort in that, and lets himself be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sounds of his breathing. 

Some small part of him doesn’t want to wake up.

***

Luhan feels totally lost. He honestly has no idea what the hell is going on. All he knows is that in the morning, Minseok was whisked away from work with little to no explanation by Jongin, and not long after everyone was told to go home and stay there. So he went, puzzled, and waited. Minseok never returned. 

Several times throughout the day, food was delivered to their houses by nervous kitchen hands, but they never even came in, leaving trays on his doorstep. Just one. And still, no sign of Minseok. Luhan spends his day worrying. Of course he worries. It’s obvious that something bad is happening. A raid on the community? An infiltration? Minseok works with security, so it has to be something like that. That’s why everyone is confined to their homes. They’re in trouble. 

Is it Q-16?

Is Minseok in danger?

Finally, as night falls, he hears footsteps in front of the door, and this time, the door swings open. Minseok stands there, looking absolutely awful, haggard and drawn, like he’s been to hell and back in the past day. “Minseok!” Luhan says, scrambling to his feet. “Thank god you’re okay.”

Minseok cracks a smile, toeing off his shoes and trudging farther into their shared room. “Hey,” he says quietly, and Luhan can even hear his exhaustion in his voice. “You feeling alright?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. What the hell is going on? No one told us anything.”

Minseok breathes out a slow, relieved sigh. “Can we sit down? I’m dead on my feet.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Luhan says, reaching out for his arm, helping him sit down on his bed mat. Minseok winces, like his muscles are sore. “What have you been doing all day? I’ve been worried sick.”

Minseok chuckles a little, head bent so Luhan can’t really see his face. “I’ve been busy. Working hard.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Hey, can I ask you for a favour?”

“Sure, anything,” Luhan says immediately. 

“Can you just, like, give me a hug? I could really use a hug.”

Luhan stares at him. His heart also beats a little faster, but he chooses to ignore that. “Is something wrong?”

Minseok shrugs, not even looking at him. “I could just _really_ use a hug. Jongin always tells me touch is healing and all that shit, and I think I’m starting to see where he’s coming from.”

“Um…” Luhan hesitates, but only for a second. “Sure,” he says, swallowing thickly. “Yeah.”

Without saying anything, Minseok holds his arms aloft, just a little, like he’s too tired to do anything more. Awkwardly, Luhan slips his own arms under them, curling them around Minseok’s torso. His hold is loose at first, uncertain, but then Minseok falls into him and presses his face into Luhan’s shoulder, and Luhan tightens his arms around him. Minseok feels limp with weariness against him, so Luhan supports his weight, holds him up, holds him together. Minseok doesn’t say anything, so neither does Luhan, and they just stay there on the floor, and Luhan pretends he’s not enjoying Minseok’s steady warmth, the now-familiar scent of his skin, the feeling of Minseok’s body pressed against his. 

It feels really nice. Vaguely, Luhan thinks he could probably get used to this. 

Minseok makes a soft, tired noise, breathing against Luhan’s neck and making him shiver. “Today sucked.”

“It’s over now,” Luhan says, trying for soothing. He actually feels really sleepy all of a sudden. 

Minseok chuckles a little against his skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, and then falls silent. Somehow, Luhan doesn’t feel like he helped. 

By the time Minseok finally pulls away, Luhan feels like he’s halfway to falling asleep on him, startling a little when he moves. He releases Minseok from his hold, shivering again for a much less pleasant reason as chilly air rushes between them, but Minseok only pulls back halfway. Surprised, Luhan meets his eyes, and his heart starts pounding when Minseok looks steadily back. 

Luhan opens his mouth to say something—anything, just to break the tension hanging between them—but before he can, Minseok tips forward and kisses him. 

It comes as a shock, but at the same time, something seems to click into place at the first touch of their lips. Luhan sighs with something like relief, pressing back, letting Minseok kiss him, letting it wash over him. Why haven’t they done this since the first time? Why haven’t they been doing this all along? Luhan’s heart is hammering against his ribs, but his skin is buzzing pleasantly, and he holds Minseok against him on instinct, kisses him back with relish. It’s warm and soft and wonderful, lips dragging together, breaths puffing between their mouths, and he can’t help the disappointed sound that crawls out of his throat when Minseok pulls away. 

Luhan stares at him, itching to drag him back in, and then Minseok says, “I want you to leave.”

“You— What?” Luhan feels like someone punched him in the stomach. 

Minseok’s throat bobs. “I want you to leave. Tonight, tomorrow, as soon as possible.” 

Luhan’s body runs cold. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“There’s nothing you can do at this point. Get out of here.” Minseok’s voice is hard, urgent. Luhan hopes desperately he’s joking, but he knows he’s not. 

“Minseok, I don’t know what’s going on,” Luhan pleads. 

Minseok takes a deep breath, closes his eyes as he sits back, farther away from Luhan. “I lied to you. I’ve always been lying to you.”

Luhan can hear his voice growing weaker. “What?”

“I don’t work with security. I’ve never worked with security. I’m a, Jongin’s my—never mind. The point is, everything I’ve told you was a lie. And now you need to leave. Chanyeol’s still alive, but I don’t know for how much longer, and honestly, I can’t tell you shit about where he is or how to save him. He might be in the old storehouse, he might not. That’s not my job. Jongin told me he’s in trouble. That’s all I know.”

Luhan’s heart skips a beat at his friend’s name. “How do you know Chanyeol?”

Minseok opens his eyes, looks at him. Luhan can’t tell if he’s sad or just tired. “Apparently he’s a prisoner here. I didn’t even know. But it doesn’t matter.”

“What are you talking about? What the _hell_ , Minseok, how can you say it doesn’t _matter?_ ” Luhan’s voice starts rising against his will, as panic and fear and confusion build up in his gut, and Minseok winces away from him. “I’m— How do you know who I _am?_ ” 

“We only have one prisoner. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out,” Minseok says blandly. 

“And you—you _lied_ to me?” Luhan says, hoping _this_ will be the lie, hoping _this_ is the thing Minseok isn’t being truthful about. 

But Minseok just nods. “From the very beginning. About everything.” He pauses, chews on his lip. “If it’s worth anything, I didn’t know who you were until recently. I thought you were trying to undermine the community.”

Luhan shakes his head, blood rushing in his ears, breath coming fast. “No. No, you couldn’t have been lying about everything.”

“I was. Luhan, listen to me. You can’t be here. You need to _leave._ Forget about me, forget about this whole community. Go home.” Minseok’s face is hard, his eyes wild. Luhan wants to look away. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Luhan says desperately. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because it’s the _truth._ Get _out_ of here, Luhan. _Leave._ ” 

Luhan punches him. He doesn’t even know why, exactly. He’s just so overwhelmed, panic and horror and agitation forming a tight ball in the middle of his stomach, squeezing at his insides, and for a moment, he’s blindingly angry. How could Minseok _do_ this to him? How could he lie? How could he make him feel like this? He hasn’t even fully processed what’s going on, but suddenly he’s punching Minseok square in the jaw, and Minseok is making a startled sound, falling backwards. “You _bastard_ ,” Luhan says, because he feels like it’s appropriate. 

Minseok sighs, sits up, wipes blood from the corner of his lip where it’s cut against his teeth. Those lips, which just kissed Luhan a minute ago. And Luhan _liked_ it. He’d wanted to kiss them again, more, forever. What the hell is going on? Was that a lie, too? 

Luhan wants to be furious, wants to _want_ to punch Minseok again, but Minseok looks at him with such sad, tired eyes, and Luhan still feels so lost. He feels so torn. He still wants to ask Minseok if he’s alright, what he was _really_ doing all day. But he can’t. Shouldn’t. Minseok is… Minseok lied to him. He knows where Chanyeol is—he knows who _Luhan_ is. He knows what Luhan wants. And he lied. For three months, he lied. Who knows what Luhan could have done in those three months? Saved Chanyeol, gone home, forgotten all about it? 

Forgotten all about Minseok. 

Who kissed him, and then told him to leave. 

“I need to go.”

Minseok nods. “Go. Now.”

“Don’t _tell me_ what to do,” Luhan spits, his temper flaring. 

Minseok’s gaze sharpens. “ _Go!_ ” he snaps. “Go, leave! Don’t come back!”

“I’m going!” Luhan snarls back. He scrambles to his feet, gathers his meagre belongings—his backpack, his shoes, his extra clothes. He stalks to the door, ignoring Minseok, who stays unmoving on the floor. At the last second, he turns back. “I’m still going to save him.”

“It’s probably useless at this point,” Minseok mutters, and he sounds pissed, but Luhan doesn’t know if it’s directed at him or at Minseok himself. He doesn’t care. 

“We’ll see,” he bites back, and then he leaves. 

The community paths are barren, silent. There are no people roaming the streets, no guards stationed at the border. Luhan doesn’t know if they were ordered to stay inside, too, or if they’re busy acting as soldiers in an encounter, or if all of that was a lie, too. Was _everything_ a lie?

He heads due west, towards the tiny camp he’s spotted on occasion while he’s working. Zitao’s camp, where Yifan said he was staying. It’s dark, silent, but Luhan is too upset to try to be quiet as he approaches. 

“Who’s there?” calls a voice, and Luhan could cry with relief when he recognizes it as Yifan’s. 

“It’s me,” he calls back, clutching the straps of his pack. A shadowy figure emerges from the tent, and Luhan barely refrains from running to him. Throat thick, he opens his mouth and says, “Minseok kissed me.”

“What?” Yifan says, sounding bewildered and sleepy. “Luhan, what’s going on?”

So Luhan tells him. He tells him things have been weird in X-22 for days, and today Minseok was gone all day, and then he came back and kissed him and told him he’s lied about everything, and Chanyeol is alive but maybe not for long, and that Minseok’s not even _in_ security. And he kissed Luhan and then said everything was a fucking lie.

“Luhan, you’re getting hysterical,” Yifan says. His voice is calm, but Luhan can hear that he’s starting to panic, too. “Where’s Chanyeol?”

“He doesn’t even _know._ But he knows who we are. He knows we’re here to rescue Chanyeol. He probably knows we’re from Q-16.”

“You’re from where?”

Yifan’s inhale is sharp, audible. Luhan swallows hard. “Tao? I thought you were asleep.”

Another figure emerges from the tent. Luhan doesn’t know him, but he knows who he is. Shit. 

“You’re from where, Yifan?” Zitao asks, eyes wide in the moonlight. “Say it again.”

Yifan lets out a slow breath. “Q-16.”

“No.” Zitao shakes his head, the same way Luhan did when Minseok told him he’d been lying all along. “No, no. You can’t be. They— They killed my sister, Yifan. They _hate_ us. You said you’re neutral, you’re a rogue, you—”

“Tao, listen.” Yifan’s voice is firm, and Zitao falls silent, but all Yifan can say is, “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Zitao whispers. 

“I didn’t know,” Yifan says quickly. “I don’t know anything. If I did anything, it was because I was following orders. Tao, I _swear._ ” 

“You _killed_ her. A _human being._ You’re killing _me._ ” 

“I’m just here to save my best friend, Tao. X-22 took him. We’re just here to get him back,” Yifan says urgently. 

“You told me you were looking for your _family_ ,” Zitao says. His voice is rising, just like Luhan’s had. God, he knows that feeling. He understands. Fuck. 

“Chanyeol _is_ my family!” Yifan shoots back. “He’s my brother! How could I just leave him there?”

“Why would you lie to me?”

“Because I needed your help!” Yifan says. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Zitao says, quietly, “You used me?”

“No! I mean. God, Tao. I needed somewhere to stay while Luhan did recon. But that doesn’t mean I don’t _care_ about you.”

“You _lied_ to me,” Zitao says, voice cracking. Idly, Luhan wonders how old he is. Twenty, twenty-one? All alone out here. Until Yifan came along, full of lies. Shit. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth,” Yifan says, and he sounds broken, too. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You have to believe me.”

“How can I believe anything? Was everything you said a lie?” 

“Not everything,” Yifan says. “Definitely not everything. You’re important to me, Zitao. You know that.”

“Do I?” Zitao asks pitifully. 

Yifan takes a deep breath, releases it. “I just need to save Chanyeol,” he says at last. 

Zitao’s answering breath is shuddery, uneven. “Don’t come near me.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” is Yifan’s soft reply. 

“You were always going to, eventually.” Zitao sounds positively miserable. Honestly, Luhan knows that feeling. “Sleep outside. I don’t care. I’m gonna be dead soon, anyway.”

“Tao, don’t—”

“No, Yifan, _you_ don’t. Just...let me sleep.”

“You have to let me explain a little more. You have to understand why I did this,” Yifan argues. 

“I don’t have to listen to anything,” Zitao says right back. 

Vaguely, Luhan thinks about the fact that Minseok didn’t try to argue his point. He didn’t try to get Luhan to stay, to let him be in his life. Just his fucking luck. 

“I don’t want you to hate me. I did...a lot of things wrong. Okay? But I want to be honest with you. Like you’ve been honest with me.”

“Yeah, now, when I found out on my own who you are,” Zitao spits tiredly. 

“I’ve always wanted to be honest.” Yifan sighs harshly, runs his fingers through his hair. “I just want you to understand.”

“Save it,” Zitao mutters. “Go...save your murderer friend, or whatever.”

“He is _not_ a murderer,” Yifan snaps. “None of us are murderers. We’re just doing what we need to do to survive.”

“Like killing my sister because people who are different scare you?” Zitao asks. “My sister, the most selfless, caring person in the whole world?”

“How can you call her your sister, and then deny me my own brotherhood, Tao? My community is my family, too. Wouldn’t you do anything for your family?” Yifan asks. 

“I don’t— I don’t _care_ if they’re your family, Yifan. You _lied_ to me. You _used_ me.” Zitao shakes his head, breathing hard in the night air. “I’m going to bed.”

Yifan sighs, long and loud, but he doesn’t try to stop him. He turns back to Luhan, hands curled in his hair. “I’ll...I’ll deal with him later.”

Luhan swallows hard, shakes his head. “I’m really sorry, Yifan—”

“No, no. It’s okay. He was going to find out eventually, I guess. I...I really wanted to be honest with him.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Luhan admits. 

“Let’s just...go to bed. There’s nothing we can do tonight, right? We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Luhan chews on his lip. “I guess so.”

Everything is all so messed up, everything is falling apart, Luhan’s _life_ is falling apart. He was with X-22 for as long as he’d been with Q-16 aboveground. And now, suddenly, everything was a lie. And Yifan, too. Everything is a fucking disaster. 

And yet he falls asleep, cold on the grass with his back pressed against Yifan’s, thinking about Minseok, and whether or not every kiss was a lie, too.

***

In Q-16, Baekhyun is having a good morning, if a slightly frustrating one. Jongdae’s been in and out since the previous day, because Baekhyun is having memories, but they keep ending up being disjointed, or something he’s already remembered once before, or just completely nonsensical or vague. But still, they’re something, as Yixing keeps reminding him. 

Yixing. The main reason Baekhyun’s awake at the crack of dawn and not absolutely miserable. He wakes up with Baekhyun, naturally—sometimes they share a bed, but even when they don’t, Yixing is always in the room. So he’s always there, even when Baekhyun wakes up from migraines or other aches and pains, smiling at him, stroking his hair, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. It’s hard to wake up unhappy. 

He’s there now, sitting with Joonmyun in the corner, sleepy and soft, but looking over at Baekhyun often, checking up on him while Baekhyun does his physio stretches. Baekhyun doesn’t like it when people hover as he does them—they’re painful and embarrassing—but Yixing always stays nearby, ready to soothe him if it gets overwhelming. 

Joonmyun, for his part, seems to have begrudgingly accepted Yixing’s… _attachment_ to Baekhyun in the past two weeks. (Baekhyun doesn’t know what they have, exactly, between them. There’s kissing, and gentle touches, and tender words and warm smiles, but what does that _mean_ , exactly? He’s not going to ask. He doesn’t want to jinx it. Not when things are so _nice_.) Joonmyun’s been civil. He asks Baekhyun how he’s doing, he lays a reassuring hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder when he’s upset or in pain. There’s a silent, slightly tense, but growing camaraderie between them. Baekhyun is content. 

That’s his general state of being these days, for the most part. Of course, he still gets frustrated often, he gets mad when his brain won’t connect to his mouth, he cries when things hurt, he has little temper tantrums and bad days. But for the first time since he got blown up, Baekhyun’s been feeling content. He can see that he’s making progress. He has people that care about him. He’s lost a lot—god, he’s lost a lot—but things aren’t all terrible. He never thought he’d get back to this point. 

Sometimes, he wonders if it’s just a psychological side-effect of Yixing and Joonmyun’s healing. But he tries not to believe it. He wants it to be real. 

Right after breakfast, Jongdae comes in to check on him, hair still bed-tousled but smile bright. He sits down for a while, tries to procrastinate from starting his day. Baekhyun knows he’s been working hard recently. 

“Anything new for me?” Jongdae asks, flopping across Baekhyun’s lap, sprawling across the tops of his thighs. “Really, Baekhyun, anything. I still haven’t heard a single scandalous secret about this goddamn community. I’m dying. Give me something. Make something up if you have to.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, twisting the grass bracelet on his wrist. Yixing plays with it a lot, running the pad of his thumb over it while he holds Baekhyun’s hand in his lap. Just thinking about it makes Baekhyun all warm and wobbly inside. “If I had anything, I would have told you,” he says. “I’ve just been, y’know...doodling and shit while you’ve been too busy for me.” He scowls at his momentary speech lapse. He’s trying his best to get better. 

Jongdae sighs dramatically. “Nothing interesting at all?”

“See for yourself,” Baekhyun says, waving at the messy pile of loose paper on the table. “It’s all garbage.”

Jongdae pouts, but obediently picks up the papers to flip through them, one at a time. They have shaky handwriting and ugly little sketches on them, Baekhyun’s first attempts at fine motor activities, messy representations of messy memories that flit through Baekhyun’s brain. He usually just fills up a paper and then throws it onto the pile, never to be seen again. 

In the corner, Joonmyun and Yixing’s heads are close together, discussing something in low tones. “What are you two conspiring about?” Baekhyun asks. He’s proud of how quickly the word comes to mind, translates to speech with only the barest hesitation. “Are you gossipping about me?”

“Never,” Yixing says, sending him a warm smile. 

“It’s nothing, Baek,” Joonmyun says on a sigh, which means that it’s _definitely_ something. 

“Why? What is it? Is something wrong?” Baekhyun asks. 

“No,” Joonmyun says, too quickly. 

“Joon’s been feeling something weird coming from the east,” Yixing says—Baekhyun appreciates his honesty, and Yixing knows it. What a wonderful man. “Bad stuff.”

“Really?” Baekhyun asks, blinking in surprise. “X-22 is in that direction.”

“Not that far,” Joonmyun says, shaking his head. “It’s too noticeable for that. I’m not that sensitive—it’d have to be crazy strong for me to feel it from there. It’s probably just from the next house over or something.”

Baekhyun frowns. “What kind of bad stuff? Should we be reporting it?” 

Joonmyun just shrugs. “Hard to know. I’ll talk to Liyin about it when she comes in.”

“Hey, Baek,” Jongdae says suddenly, interrupting them. “What are all these symbols?”

“What?” Baekhyun turns back to him, peers at the paper Jongdae is showing him. “I don’t know. If an image pops up in my memories, I draw it. Or, try to. I’m not very artistic, even _with_ steady hands.”

“Yeah, but like. You’ve drawn this one a zillion times.” Jongdae flips through the pages quickly, points out five more times Baekhyun’s doodled the same little symbol. A circular shape, open at the bottom but with little tails sticking out to either side, with a four-point star in the center, all surrounded by a larger circle.

“Damn, you’re right. I never even realized I drew it more than once.” Baekhyun laughs. “Nice one, brain. Wonder what it is.”

Jongdae shakes his head. “No idea. Looks kinda occult.” He perks up. “Hey, Yixing, do you know it?”

“I think that’s stereotyping, Jongdae,” Baekhyun says with a roll of his eyes. 

Yixing looks up, takes a look at the paper Jongdae holds up to him. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Baekhyun’s eyes widen. “You actually know it?”

“Joon, look.” Yixing nods towards them. 

Joonmyun looks away from the eastern wall to comply, and his eyes widen, too. “Oh. _Shit._ ” 

“What is it?” Baekhyun asks. 

“It’s a paranormal bunker symbol,” Joonmyun says. He meets Yixing’s eyes, who nods in agreement. “The four-point star...that’s our thing.”

“Really? Is it yours?” Baekhyun asks, gaping.

Joonmyun shakes his head. “It’s not Delta. Xing?”

“It’s not Gamma,” Yixing says. 

Joonmyun frowns, rubs his forehead. “I...I think it might be Omega.”

Yixing’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Omega? Do you think so?”

“Why?” Jongdae asks immediately, looking a little too excited considering how sombre Yixing and Joonmyun seem to feel at the revelation. “Who’re they?”

“I can’t be sure,” Joonmyun says, shaking his head. “I mean—it can’t be, right? Why would Baekhyun know the symbol for Omega bunker?” 

“What’s the memory from?” Jongdae asks, leaning forwards in his enthusiasm. 

“No idea,” Baekhyun confesses. “I usually let those stupid little non-memories slip away. If they’re not substantial, they’re of no use to me. I won’t crowd up my memory with garbage.”

“But you drew it a lot of times. Maybe it’s important,” Jongdae says. He looks like he’s just itching for some entertainment. 

“This is really weird,” Yixing mutters. 

“What’s weird?” Liyin asks, breezing in with a gust of chilly wind. 

“Baekhyun’s having weird memories about mysterious symbols,” Jongdae says, turning the paper to face her. 

Joonmyun rolls his eyes at Jongdae’s theatrics. “It’s—”

“Omega Group,” Liyin says breathlessly. 

Every head turns to stare at her. “What?” Baekhyun says dumbly. 

“It’s Omega Group’s bunker symbol.” Liyin’s eyes are wide, stunned. “How do you know it?”

“How do _you_ know it?” Baekhyun asks. 

Liyin waves her hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Where did you see that symbol, Baekhyun? They’re a big group. But they’re not local. Or at least, they haven’t been for a _long_ time.”

Baekhyun can only shake his head, lost and confused. “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Think harder,” Liyin says firmly. “ _Try._ ” 

Baekhyun blinks, then sits back and closes his eyes tightly, tries to sift through his messy, cluttered brain. He sorts through memories, conjures up the image of the symbol, tries to match it up. The name _Omega_ doesn’t ring any bells at all, but the symbol _does_ feel familiar. Where has he seen it? He must have seen it a lot, for it to show up this often in his memories. Or it must have been important. _Think,_ Baekhyun, _think._ Circular shapes. Four-point star. He imagines them pressed into something, a cold, hard material. Carved, maybe. Stone? No, lighter than that. Metal. An engraving. Old, rusted, worn. Held between his hands. Giving it away. 

“Oh,” he says. “It was the puzzle box I gave to Chanyeol.”

Four pairs of eyes blink back at him. “What puzzle box?” Jongdae asks warily. 

Baekhyun shrugs. “I don’t know. I found it once. While we were tilling the fields, back in spring. There was a bag—I told you about it once!” Baekhyun grins, triumphant, as two memories slot together. “I found an old bag in one of the fields. There was some stuff in it. One of the things was an old, rusty puzzle box. I gave it to Chanyeol to figure out. As far as I know, he never did.”

Liyin lets out a shaky breath. “And that’s it? That’s the only thing you saw it on?”

“I dunno, maybe the other stuff in the bag had it on there, too? I don’t remember that clearly.”

“Where are they? The other things.” Her voice is tense, urgent. It’s making Baekhyun nervous. 

“I-I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t remember what I did with them.”

She takes a slow breath, lets it out. “I want you to think, _very hard,_ Baekhyun. This could be very important.”

“Why?” Baekhyun asks, heart thumping. 

“I think something might be going on. And if Omega’s involved...we should know about it,” Liyin says darkly. 

 

Baekhyun tries. He really does. He sends everyone out of the room, sits there on his bed with the pictures of the Omega symbol around him, and tries _so hard_ to remember what he did with the contents of the bag after giving the puzzle box to Chanyeol. 

But all he draws up from the depths of his memory is blankness. There’s nothing. It’s just a gaping hole where that information should be, where it _would_ have been if Baekhyun hadn’t fucking blown himself up. 

He tries and tries until there are tears in his eyes, and then he calls everyone back in and says, “Yixing, boost me.”

“What?” Yixing says, brows furrowing. 

“My brain. Give it a, you know, a healing boost. Maybe that will work. Right?”

Yixing pauses, then looks at Joonmyun. Joonmyun glances guiltily back. “Baek...I can’t.”

“What? Why not?” Baekhyun demands. 

“There’s...there’s no energy left.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been healing me for _months_ , how can there suddenly be no energy left?” Baekhyun asks, growing angry. 

Yixing chews on his lip, tugs at his sleeves. “It’s...Baek...it’s been gone for weeks. We’ve used it all up. We haven’t been healing you for a while now.”

“What are you talking about?” Baekhyun’s breaths are getting shorter, more desperate. 

Joonmyun steps forward, rests a reassuring hand on Yixing’s back. “There’s no energy left around here. We couldn’t say anything, it was dangerous, we didn’t know what they’d do to us if they knew we weren’t helping you anymore.”

Baekhyun shakes his head in fervent denial. “But I’ve been getting better. I’ve been remembering things.”

“That was all you,” Yixing says with a gentle, hesitant smile. “We had no part in it, except at the very beginning.”

“Pulling energy towards us is too exhausting, we can’t do it anymore,” Joonmyun says. “The only things left in this room are the people and the plant.”

Baekhyun’s eyes move to Chanyeol’s plant on the windowsill, still strong and leafy in its pot, despite all the times he’s forgotten to water it or watered it too much. It’s been his constant companion all this time. A reminder. A tiny symbol of hope. “Use the plant,” he says. 

“What?” Yixing asks, startled. 

Baekhyun takes a deep breath. “This could be important. Chanyeol...he would understand. Use the energy from the plant.”

Still, Yixing hesitates. “Baek, are you sure? We could kill it.”

Baekhyun nods, firm in his decision. “Do it.”

So they do. Joonmyun moves the plant to the bedside table, Yixing moves to his chair beside Baekhyun’s bed. He leans over, places his hands on Baekhyun’s skull. Joonmyun closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. 

“Converting energy from plants is harder than taking it from the ground,” Joonmyun says, like a warning. “It might be difficult.”

“Just do your best,” Yixing encourages, his palms warm on Baekhyun’s scalp. 

Baekhyun closes his eyes, tries to concentrate. Field. Bag. Puzzle box. Chanyeol. And then...nothing. Nothing. He tries harder, and after a moment of silence, feels warmth and pressure radiate into his skull. Oh, it _does_ feel like something. Baekhyun hasn’t felt this in weeks. Right. 

It feels weird. Not painful, but weird. Like someone’s pulling a thread in the intricate web of stitching in his brain. Pulling some things together, unravelling others. It makes Baekhyun feel a little nauseous. He tries to concentrate. Field. Bag. Puzzle box. Omega symbol. 

Oh. Oh. He let Chanyeol hide it for him. Since technically he was supposed to give it to Community Leader, but he’d wanted to look at it more someday. He let Chanyeol take it. 

“It’s in Chanyeol’s old workshop,” he says, opening his eyes. “In the toolbox. In an old fake leather bag.”

Jongdae exchanges a glance with Liyin, then leaves immediately. 

Joonmyun looks tired, but Yixing is smiling. “You did so good,” he says quietly, holding Baekhyun’s hands now. “Chanyeol would be proud of you.”

Baekhyun’s returned smile is wobbly. “How’s the plant?” he asks weakly. 

Joonmyun rolls his shoulders, taps the pot. “Still going. I did my best not to take everything. Take care of him for the next few days.”

Baekhyun gives a soft laugh. “I think it’s a her.”

Yixing rubs the palm of his hand with his thumb, brings it up to his mouth for a soft kiss, and says nothing. 

A minute later, Jongdae returns, toting the bag and breathing a little hard. “Right where you said it’d be,” he says, dumping the contents onto the table. “But no puzzle box.”

“Really? Fuck,” Baekhyun curses. “It wasn’t anywhere else, either?”

Jongdae shakes his head. “None of the drawers I looked into, not on the desk, nothing.”

Baekhyun blows out a slow breath. “He left all his stuff with Yifan, as far as I know. The plant was his, originally, before it was mine. Do you think Yifan took it with him?”

Jongdae just shakes his head and shrugs. 

Liyin, meanwhile, is picking through the rest of the bag. A broken mirror, with the same Omega symbol on the back. A photo, so faded and torn it’s impossible to tell what it was once of. A pocket watch with intricate designs, no longer working. And a notebook, leather-bound and brittle, but still legible. 

“It’s a diary,” Liyin says quietly, in awe or terrified. Maybe both. “Written by Yoona.”

“Who?” Jongdae asks. 

“One of the leading pair from Omega. Yoona and Yuri. An _extremely_ powerful sorcerer-conjurer pair.” Liyin shakes her head in amazement. 

“How the hell do you know this?” Joonmyun asks, aghast. 

“You didn’t?” is Liyin’s surprised reply. 

“Of course I did. _I’m a sorcerer._ ” Joonmyun gesticulates wildly. “What are you not telling us?”

“And what the hell is so bad about Omega that you’re freaking out?” Jongdae interjects. 

“They’re an elite group,” Liyin says, ignoring Joonmyun’s question, which Baekhyun doesn’t miss. “Or at least, they _were_. Well-known for their superior strength and selectivity. You weren’t born into Omega. You were chosen.”

“As far as I heard, they were seen around after the first resurfacing,” Joonmyun says, still frowning. “You heard about them, you know. But after the plague, they disappeared. No one ever heard from them again. They’re kind of like...a legend.”

“Probably just moved away,” Yixing puts in. “Right?”

Liyin shakes her head. “Not according to this,” she says, flipping through the pages. 

“Why, what does it say?” Baekhyun asks, heart thumping. 

There’s the distinctive sound of Liyin swallowing hard, and then she says, “She’s talking about the plague. How it’s killing people, how it’s uncontrollable. How they have to do something about it, or it’ll wipe out the human race.”

“But it just died out, didn’t it?” Baekhyun asks, voice shaking. “It just disappeared when we all went back underground?”

Liyin shakes her head slowly. “Last page. _‘It may take everything Omega has. But it’ll be worth the Reward. May our sacrifice result in something that will bless those who supersede us.’_ And that’s it. Signed, Yoona, Omega Leader.”

“Oh my god,” Joonmyun says dumbly. 

“She died?” Yixing asks. “They all died?”

“They sacrificed themselves to get rid of the plague,” Liyin says, and she sounds numb. 

“That’s...incredible,” Yixing says, awed. 

“But look,” Liyin says, holding up the photograph. The front is faded, indecipherable, but the back has ink on it, stained and messy. _Be careful,_ it reads. _Evil this big can’t be destroyed, only contained._ She takes a deep breath. “I think it was the box.”

“Oh, fuck,” Baekhyun whispers. 

Liyin looks at him. “Where’s Yifan?”

“I—I don’t know. He left months ago. He could be _anywhere._ He could be _dead._ ” 

“But where is he most likely to be?” Liyin asks.

Baekhyun presses his lips together. “X-22.”

Liyin looks around at the men in the room, all in varying states of shock and confusion. “Boys,” she says slowly. “We’re going to need that truck.”

 

It’s surprisingly easy to sneak out of Baekhyun’s house—all five of them. Jongdae, as a Builder, draws no attention leaving the building and prying the boards off the windows in Baekhyun’s room. Liyin, as a trusted healer, easily tells the guards stationed outside that Baekhyun is resting, and not to bother him until she returns with his food at lunch, in four hours. That’s more than enough time for them to slide out the window and into the streets. 

With Baekhyun on Jongdae’s back—they have no time to drag him along on foot—they head for the barracks at the eastern edge of the community. Baekhyun worries about getting the truck out, or even _leaving the community,_ until he sees Soojung on post outside. He breathes a sigh of relief. One of the only people in Q-16 that owes Chanyeol a massive favour—who still blames herself for his death. 

She doesn’t ask questions, either. Yixing and Joonmyun hide behind abandoned, collapsing buildings as Baekhyun begs and pleads, but Soojung probably would have done it even if they’d been in plain sight. She barely takes any convincing at all. “For Chanyeol, anything,” she says. “I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”

Baekhyun could kiss her. Really, he could. But as it is, he’s in a huge hurry, and his legs are shaky and weak. “You’re a life-saver,” he says breathlessly. “Possibly literally.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Soojung says seriously. “But you gotta leave _now._ We just got word that X-22’s approaching the Dead Zone, we’ll be heading out soon. Get going, before the ranks start gathering.”

“You got it,” Baekhyun says, saluting sloppily. He clings to Jongdae, and they get moving. 

Within fifteen minutes, the five of them are perched precariously on top of the huge truck bed, hearts pounding, palms sweaty. No one knows exactly where they’re going, or what’s going to happen when they get there. But Baekhyun knows it’s important. He knows they have to find out, one way or another, because he has the awful feeling the alternative would be to let themselves die. And he’s so not about that life. 

He turns as they take off down the bumpy dirt path, double-checks that Yixing has Chanyeol’s plant in his lap. Just in case. He doesn’t want to be caught without an important memory when they need it most. 

Meeting his eyes, Yixing tries on a smile, but it’s weak. Instead, he holds out his hand, and Baekhyun reaches out to take it. 

That, at least, is a comfort. Something familiar in the midst of this chaos. 

Baekhyun’s heart hammers against his ribs, and Yixing holds on tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year all! We have just over a week left of posting~ I hope you're all excited :3 
> 
> Please, share your theories uwu
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	20. Chapter 20

The day is just warming up when Yifan hears a familiar rumble on the wind. It’s quiet, a hum, and if he hadn’t spent hours in the company of that sound, he might not notice it at all. He looks up from where he’s making preparations with Luhan to sneak into X-22, turns his gaze eastward. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Luhan asks, rubbing his arms as the chilly breeze sneaks under their clothes. It’d been a cold, miserable night outside Zitao’s tent, and they’re both sore and tired. 

Yifan listens again, but the sound is gone. He sighs. “Nothing. Must have imagined it.”

“Can you pay attention, then? We’re floundering enough as it is.” Luhan picks up a dirty rock from the ground and uses it as a weight to hold down the corner of the sketchy map he’s made of X-22. “Minseok said Chanyeol’s in a storehouse. There’s several around the community, as far as I know. One near the community center, one attached to the armoury, one nearish the south—”

Yifan frowns. “How do you know he wasn’t lying about that, too?” 

Luhan pauses, chews on his lip. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“He lied to you that whole time,” Yifan points out. 

Luhan looks pained. “But why would he change his tune just to lie some more?”

Yifan shrugs. “To confuse you?”

“No. No. I really think that was the truth, Yifan.” Luhan swallows visibly. “And if it wasn’t...what would we do? What other options do we have?”

He’s right. If Minseok _was_ telling the truth, Chanyeol doesn’t have long. This is the only chance they have. 

“The community’s on lockdown, for whatever reason. Guards are minimal, everyone’s staying inside—this is the perfect time to stage a rescue,” Luhan says, back down to business. “We might have to just go to every—”

“There it is again!” Yifan says, holding out a hand to stop him. A low rumble, getting louder. “Can you hear it?”

Luhan looks dazed. “Yeah. What is that?”

“You’ll call me crazy, but I swear to god it’s the Defense truck,” Yifan says, scanning their surroundings desperately. The wind is too strong, and too erratic, for him to be sure where it’s coming from. 

“Q-16?” Luhan asks, eyes wide. “Do you think so?”

“I don’t know...why would they be this far west? We only ever used the truck to get to the Dead Zone.” Yifan shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

The sound fades, builds up, fades again. It’s coming from the south-east, he’s pretty sure. From the hills. That would explain why the volume keeps changing. Yifan tries to focus on planning Chanyeol’s rescue, but he can’t help but be distracted. What if it _is_ Q-16? What would they want? What would they be doing here?

And then, suddenly, the sound cuts out completely, and Yifan can’t resist his curiosity. “I’m just gonna go check it out,” he says, standing up. 

“But what about Chanyeol?” Luhan asks. 

“I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna go see what’s going on,” Yifan says, stalking in the direction of the hills. “If it’s nothing, I’ll come right back and we’ll head in. I promise.”

He only makes it fifty meters before a face crests one of the hills. It’s small, distant, but it sparks recognition. “I— Jongdae?”

“Guys!” the face yells. “Over here!”

“What the hell?” Yifan stares, appalled, as more faces appear. Two he doesn’t recognize. But one is— “Liyin?”

“Yifan!”

Yifan gapes. Leaning heavily on Jongdae’s side, feet dragging, is Baekhyun. “Baek!” he yells, running towards them on instinct. “Baek, what are you doing here?”

“Yifan, oh my god! You’re alive!” 

It feels like he’s in a dream. Jongdae hoists Baekhyun onto his back, and the lot of them—five people in total, _why is Q-16’s healer there?_ —head down the hill towards them, as fast as they dare. Luhan is coming up behind Yifan, sprinting, but Yifan got a head start. It takes him thirty seconds to all but crash into them. 

“Jongdae!” Luhan yells as Baekhyun scrambles down from Jongdae’s back and envelopes Yifan in a hug. “What the hell are you doing here? _Liyin?_ ” 

“Baek. God. Long time no see,” Yifan says against the side of his friend’s head, squeezing him tightly. 

“Oh, fuck. Yifan, I’m ecstatic to see you, really, but that hurts a lot.” 

“What?” Yifan lets go, holds him at arm’s length. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

Baekhyun wobbles, clings to Yifan’s arms to steady himself. His grin is broad. “Just recovering from a near-death experience a few months back. No biggie.”

“What? Oh my god. What happened?”

“I got blown up. Lost my memory and all that shit. But look, I’m kind of walking now!” Baekhyun laughs. “Forget about it. We’ll discuss it later. I’m here for a reason.”

“Yeah, what the hell is going on? Who are all these people?” Yifan asks, looking around. Luhan is hugging Jongdae hard to his right, the two strangers are approaching more slowly and watching with small smiles, and Liyin—Liyin looks like she’s seen a ghost. 

“They’re my...entourage,” Baekhyun says, pausing noticeably before the word comes out. “We came to—”

“Tao?” Liyin says suddenly, eyes wide. “Zitao?”

Yifan blinks at her, then looks over his shoulder to where Tao is approaching, slowly, from his camp. He looks just as shocked as Liyin does. What?

“Who’s that?” Baekhyun asks, frowning. “Liyin?”

“Tao!” Hand over her mouth, Liyin starts running at the same time as Zitao does, and Yifan watches in utter confusion as they meet and embrace, _crying._ What the hell?

“How do you know each other?” he asks dumbly. Q-16’s healer and the rogue conjurer he’s been living with for the past three months?

“I thought you were dead,” Zitao says, haltingly, and things start falling into place. 

Conjurer. Sister. Dead.

“You’re paranormal?” he asks incredulously. 

“What are you doing here?” Zitao asks, sobbing. “What are you—how are you _alive?_ ” 

“Zitao?” says one of the other strangers, stunned. 

Baekhyun turns to him, brows furrowed. “Xing? _You_ know him?”

The stranger gapes. “He was in Gamma with me. He was the other conjurer that came with to find a match in Delta, and then moved on to Beta afterwards.”

Yifan is just so, so lost. “Who the hell _is_ everyone? What’s going on?”

No one seems to know. 

“Uh…” Baekhyun says. “Well. This is Yixing, and this is Joonmyun, for starters. They’re...from here. X-22.”

“Hi,” says the taller stranger as he steps forwards, to Baekhyun’s side, smiling softly. He’s holding...Chanyeol’s plant? What? “Nice to meet you.”

“Why are they with _you?_ ” 

“They were, um, kidnapped. A couple months ago. When I got blown up. They’ve been my personal healers since then. They’re paranormal.” Baekhyun laughs a little hysterically. “Turns out they’re not so bad. Paranormals, I mean.”

Yifan shakes his head in disbelief. “I know. Zitao’s one.”

“Yeah, who the hell is he?”

“A rogue kid. He...he said his partner, his sister—not his real sister—he said she was dead. But I think we just found her.” They glance back at him and Liyin still clinging to each other, trying to speak through their tears. 

“I thought she was from Q-17,” Baekhyun says dumbly. 

“What? No,” Jongdae says. “I thought she was one of yours.”

“No, she joined at the same time as you. Signed on as a healer.” Baekhyun frowns. “You don’t know her, Xing?”

“No, she must be from Beta, or one of the other groups,” Yixing says. “Wherever Zitao was matched with her. Joon, you didn’t know she’s a sorcerer?”

“We can only sense conjurers,” Joonmyun says, lingering slightly behind Yixing, looking overwhelmed by this all. “Sorcerers just feel like...different people.”

“What the hell was she doing in Q-16, then?” Baekhyun asks. 

“And why is Jongdae here, anyway?” Luhan asks, leaning on his old Builder friend. 

“Oh, he’s my recovery buddy. We’ve become very close recently.” Baekhyun laughs. “I brought him along as my personal transport, because I walk like a fucking toddler.”

“But why are you _here?_ ” Yifan asks at last, resisting the urge to turn to stare at Zitao and Liyin again. “What are all of you doing here?”

“Oh! Right. Yifan. Do you have Chanyeol’s old puzzle box?” 

“His—what?”

“Chanyeol had a puzzle box I gave him. He was trying to fix it and solve it.”

“No, I know. I remember. But why are you looking for it?” Yifan asks. It must be pretty important for him to have come _all the way here_ to find it. 

“Oh, well, see. We discovered it might be holding the fucking plague inside.” Baekhyun smiles with a hint of a wince. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“And,” Joonmyun adds, taking a step closer, “going by the enormity of the terrible feelings coming from this community, it got out.”

Yifan gapes. “I don’t have it. Chanyeol— He had it with him when he was taken. He was messing around with it in the trenches back then.”

“Oh.” Baekhyun stares at him. “Where is it now, then?”

“I don’t know,” Yifan says. “Maybe he still has it.”

Baekhyun’s eyes widen. “You mean he’s—he’s alive?”

Yifan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Baekhyun doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know Chanyeol’s still alive. He’s spent the last three months assuming his best friend was dead. “Yeah,” he breathes. 

“He is,” Luhan confirms. “I’ve been doing recon in there for months. Minseok told me he’s still alive.”

Baekhyun just gapes, eyes visibly filling with overwhelmed tears, and both Jongdae and Yixing reach out to hold onto him as he draws a shuddering breath.

“Minseok?” Yixing says, surprised, even as he clutches Baekhyun’s hand. “Jongin’s conjurer partner?”

“Wait, what?” Luhan blinks at him in shock. “He’s a Builder.”

“No, I know. But he was Jongin’s conjurer partner. Did he quit?”

“What are you talking about?” Luhan looks increasingly panicked. “He spent time with Jongin, but—”

“Oh, then he didn’t quit. That’s good.” Yixing smiles, relieved.

“That asshole, he better have been taking care of Jongin for us,” Joonmyun mutters darkly. 

“I am really confused,” Jongdae pipes up as Baekhyun turns into him to muffle a sob against his shoulder. Yifan feels weird; _he_ was Baekhyun’s best friend, next to Chanyeol, last time he saw him. A lot has happened since then, he figures. 

“Minseok was my roommate for three months,” Luhan says, and his voice is shaky. “I think I’d know if he was a conjurer.”

“Why, was he a full-time Builder?” Yixing asks with a frown. 

Luhan swallows hard. “No. He took afternoons off. He— I don’t know what he did. I knew he was doing other work but… _conjuring?_ ” 

Yixing nods. “Yeah. He was the only match Jongin found in X-22.”

“How many paranormals does this community _have?_ ” Jongdae asks, shaking his head. 

“Just the four, as far as I know,” Yixing supplies. “I don’t know where _they_ came from.” He gestures towards Zitao and Liyin in the background. 

“The box!” Baekhyun says suddenly, still red-faced and breathless, but now urgent. “We’re getting off-track. We need the box, Yifan. Apparently some...super-powerful paranormals saved all of humanity by locking up the goddamn plague in the puzzle box, and now, maybe, it’s been re-opened. You said Chanyeol’s alive. Where is he? We need to find it.”

“Apparently he’s in a storehouse,” Luhan says, looking shaken. “At least, that’s what Minseok told me. After...lying about everything.” He laughs slightly, bitterly. “It’s all we have to go on.”

“Where is he?” Baekhyun prompts. “Minseok. We need to talk to him.”

Luhan gapes at him. “He— I don’t know. In the community? He told me to leave, last night. He knows who I am.”

“If he told you to leave instead of killing you, he’s practically on our side,” Baekhyun says, incredibly over-confident. Yifan admires that. But maybe right now, after finding out his best friend is alive after presumably accepting he’s been dead for three months, Baekhyun thinks _anything_ is possible. “Plus, we’ve got some Exes on our side.” He gestures to Yixing and Joonmyun behind him. 

“We’d give him a heart attack,” Yixing says, chuckling humorlessly. 

“All the better. He sounds like a dick,” Baekhyun says. 

“He was just trying to protect his community,” Luhan says snippily, and then promptly looks shocked at himself. “Did I just stand up for him?”

“Minseok kissed him,” Yifan puts in, just to catch everyone up. 

Joonmyun grins a little. “Did he really? Nice.”

Luhan scowls. “Can we not talk about this?”

“So many inter-community romances,” Jongdae sighs dramatically. 

“Are there more?” Yifan asks, looking at Baekhyun, whose cheeks pink tellingly. 

Jongdae is a better friend than expected, though. “Joonmyun and me,” he says, grinning. “I’m wooing him.”

“Oh my god,” Joonmyun says flatly. “Never.”

“Shut up! Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen,” Baekhyun says, reminding them all that serious shit is happening. “Some of us are going to go into X-22. Definitely me—if Chanyeol is there, I’m there.”

“You can barely walk,” Jongdae argues. 

“Then you’ll just have to carry me, Jongdae dearest,” Baekhyun coos. “Yifan, you’re coming. You’re the only soldier among us, and I don’t want to be in there without any cover.”

“I was planning on going anyway,” Yifan confirms. 

“Yixing, Joonmyun, you’re both coming. Our only Exes. Luhan, you too. Our other connection.” Baekhyun looks around. “That just leaves Liyin and the conjurer kid.”

“I could carry you, if Jongdae wants to stay,” Yixing suggests. 

“Nah, I’m coming in. I didn’t come all the way out here to sit around and wait for you to get yourselves killed,” Jongdae says. 

“It’s settled, then. A whole flock of us are going in.” Baekhyun nods definitively. 

“You’re in luck,” Luhan says. “The community’s on lockdown. Everyone’s being told to stay inside.”

“Perfect.” Baekhyun grins, but Yifan can see the glint of fear in his eyes. “Let’s do it, men.”

They turn to head back to Zitao’s camp to make a game plan, but Yifan can’t help but stop next to Liyin and Zitao where they stand, still holding onto each other, tearful but talking in low tones. He swallows hard, rubs the back of his neck. “Uh...Tao?”

Zitao blinks up at him, surprised. “Yifan.”

Yifan doesn’t know what to say. ‘ _I didn’t kill your sister’_? _‘Please don’t still hate me’_? He settles on, “Is everything okay?”

Liyin laughs softly. “You must be confused.”

“Extremely,” Yifan admits. 

Liyin takes a deep breath, calming herself. “I was part of Beta group. They were...are...not kind to non-paranormals. When we resurfaced and some of the paranormal groups wanted to help others, you know, as Yixing and Joonmyun do, there was a lot of fighting between our groups. Beta was sometimes violent. Hateful. Zitao and I left to get away from it.”

“Right. Zitao told me,” Yifan says softly.

Liyin nods. “But Beta wasn’t pleased. I’m a...strong sorcerer. Comparatively. I was an asset to the group. When I left, they assumed it was because Zitao was rubbing off on me. In a bad way, in their view. One day, in the middle of the night, they attacked our camp, took me away. They...they told me Tao was dead. I believed them.” Her eyes glimmer, but she blinks hard. “I don’t know if they expected me to find a new conjurer and rejoin Beta, or what, but I didn’t. They had me on watch for a while, but I got away eventually. I joined Q-16. As a healer, without telling them I’m paranormal.” She smiles vaguely. “I didn’t want to go back to X-22. Bad memories. And Q-16 was the last place they’d look for me. An anti-paranormal group, known raiders. And I’ve always been a natural healer. It comes with the sorcerer abilities. Even if we can’t heal without a conjurer, we’re very intuitive when it comes to the natural way in which bodies heal themselves, and we know how to encourage it. It’s all about energies.” She shrugs.

“There were so many raids against paranormals back then,” Zitao says, breath hitching. “I just assumed—”

“Hey,” Liyin soothes. “We’re together now.”

Together. Zitao said he would die without his sorcerer. But they’re together now. 

“I’m really happy for you,” Yifan says, and he means it. “Tao, I’m so happy you got her back.”

Zitao rubs his eyes, looks at him. “I’m sorry I said you killed her.”

Yifan smiles ruefully. “I’m sorry I couldn’t deny it with any certainty.”

“We’ve all done things we regret. We have to put them behind us,” Liyin says, smiling bravely. “Especially now.”

Yifan nods. “We’re heading into X-22. All of us. We’re going after Chanyeol.”

Liyin nods as well. “The puzzle box?”

“Yeah. Will you guys stay here? If something happens...we’ll need a Plan B.”

“Of course.” Liyin rolls her shoulders, tips up her chin. She’s always struck Yifan as a remarkably strong person. “We’re here if you need us.”

“Thank you.” Yifan smiles. “Stay safe. Both of you.”

Zitao reaches out, takes his hand. “You stay safe, too.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He heads over to where the rest of their group is gathering, poring over Luhan’s rough maps, preparing for a rescue. Everyone is grim, determined. Yifan takes a deep breath. 

Finally, after months of waiting, Yifan is throwing himself into the action.

***

Jongin is exhausted. 

He’s beyond exhausted. He’s barely existing. He woke up still drained from the previous day’s gruelling work, and then he got right back to it, finding Minseok, finding more people who contracted the sickness during the night. There are so many of them. The community thrums with building black energy. Some of them are already so sick that they’re showing symptoms—coughing, sore, stiff. Jongin can’t waste his energy, and X-22’s energy reserves, on healing them. The best he can do is heal those in which the disease is spreading but not yet festering. It’s so hard to leave the suffering, though. It’s so hard to feel like he’s doing the right thing. 

And he’s so tired. 

He’s so tired, in fact, and so overwhelmed, that he senses no difference in X-22, no change in the community or its inhabitants, until a somewhat familiar voice stage-whispers, “ _Minseok,_ ” and an even _more_ familiar voice whispers, “ _Jongin!_ ” 

He turns and sees two _very_ unexpected faces staring back from around the corner of an old building. The breath catches in Jongin’s chest. “Yixing?”

Minseok stands beside him. “ _Luhan?”_

Jongin gapes, and all Yixing does is hold a finger to his mouth, signalling silence. “We need your help,” he whispers, and Jongin thinks he might be dreaming. He thinks he might be so tired that he’s hallucinating. 

But then, a minute later, Yixing is hugging him, and so is Joonmyun, and Jongin is crying because they’re alive, they’re here, they came back. A piece of Jongin’s fragile heart slots back into place.

When he finally looks away from them—just for a second, he doesn’t want to blink in case they disappear—he sees Minseok and Luhan staring at each other, stiff, uncertain. But Jongin doesn’t have time to think about them. 

“Jongin, listen, we’re so, so happy to see you. Trust me,” Joonmyun says, voice low, eyes shining. “But we have a lot of stuff to tell you, and we need your help.”

Jongin breathes hard, rubs his wet eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I’m guessing you know more than we do,” Yixing says. 

Right. The sickness. 

Joonmyun and Yixing tell him everything, or at least everything they can fit into a hushed, one-minute explanation, both talking at full speed. Then they take him, overwhelmed, to meet Baekhyun and Jongdae and Yifan, all hunkered down in a mostly-unstable, crumbling building that hasn’t yet been torn down by Builders. There, they talk more, explain more. Jongin feels lost and dazed, but he’s felt like that a lot recently. It’s a lot to take in, but everything kind of falls into place at the same time. Omega, the box, their sacrifice. He can even confirm some things the rest of them had just been guessing at. 

“I saw it,” he says, voice shaking slightly with emotion. It’s all been so much recently. “The box, and the plague coming out of it. I didn’t see the Omega symbols—I never saw it whole—but when the plague was first released, I felt it, I went to see. I saw it coming out of the box.”

Yixing and Joonmyun stare at him. “You… _saw_ it?” Joonmyun asks. 

Jongin frowns. “Well, I mean, not _see_. But I sensed it. Which is practically like seeing it.”

Yixing looks at Joonmyun. Joonmyun looks baffled. “No...it’s not.”

“What? Yes it is.” Jongin gestures around them. “It’s, you know, it’s like a mist. Don’t you feel it? It’s like, all around us. It’s coming in through the windows.”

“Jongin, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joonmyun tells him. “Are you okay?”

“He always explains it like this,” Minseok puts in. “Like a mist, or a fog, or whatever. Pools of energy, puddles, smoke.” He shrugs. “It feels like that when he siphons it into me. Tangible.”

Yixing frowns. “It becomes tangible when I _make_ it tangible.”

“No, Joon, listen!” Jongin says, insistent. “You know how you can feel sickness in a person? It’s like, it’s a black energy. It’s different from other kinds of _good_ energy. And you can feel it, you can feel where it is and stuff.”

Slowly, Joonmyun shakes his head. “That’s not what it’s like at all, Jongin. I’ve never heard any sorcerer describe it like that before. We can tell when people are sick because their energy is different. Disrupted, or sending out pain signals, or whatever.”

“No, no,” Jongin says, flapping his hand. “That’s just if they’re mad or upset or whatever. I mean if they’re _sick_. Like the people here.”

“Jongin, I don’t know what you mean. That’s _not_ what it’s like for me.”

Jongin stares at him, eyes wide. “It isn’t?” 

“Not at all,” Joonmyun confirms. 

“You don’t feel the sickness?” Jongin asks, gesturing around them again. 

Joonmyun frowns. “I feel a lot of bad stuff. It’s like, you know, that feeling of dread you get when you know something terrible’s about the happen. Except a little more tangible than that, and I can tell it’s coming from outside myself. When we were in Q-16, I could feel it coming from this direction. Now that I’m here, it’s just kind of everywhere.”

“Oh, god,” Jongin groans. “I didn’t know I was _different._ I thought I was just _sensitive._ Why can _I_ feel it?”

Minseok reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. “For the same reason you feel _everything_ so intensely. You’re a special kid.”

“Can you not feel it in Baekhyun, then?” Jongin asks. “Where he’s hurting and needs healing?”

Joonmyun shrugs. “I ask him to tell me.”

“Ribs,” Jongin says immediately. It’s harder to feel when all the energy around him is so bad, it mutes everything, but he can still tell. “Still healing. Legs, aching. Lungs, recovering. Head, wrong.”

“Shit,” Baekhyun says, awed. 

“Why am I the only one who can feel it?” Jongin asks, almost a whimper. “Why do I have to feel it alone?”

“Only one who can wield it, too,” Minseok says, and it sounds like he’s trying to be encouraging, but it’s really not. “Only one who can take it and do something with it. Something _good._ ” 

For a second, Jongin blanks out. Everything sort of just hits him at once, washes over him, blots out everything else. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re right. I’m the only one.”

“What?” says Joonmyun. “Are you okay, Jongin?”

“I’m going to...I’m going to have to be the new Omega.”

Seven faces stare back at him, concerned and uncomprehending. 

Jongin’s throat starts closing up, but he keeps his voice steady, refuses to let this be the thing that breaks him. Not now. Not when he’s needed. “Omega forced the plague into the box. Which they would only have been able to do if they could sense it, feel it, in the way that I can feel it. I’m the only one that can do it. I have to do it.”

“Jongin, that’s—that’s insane,” Joonmyun says. “You can’t handle the _whole fucking plague by yourself._ ” 

Jongin shakes his head. “I have to,” he says. “And it’s not the whole plague. Just whatever’s leaked out so far. And it’s still contained. It doesn’t have its hold on the, the world yet. You know? I think it’s still possible. For me.”

“Jongin, that’s crazy,” Minseok tells him. “You’d _die._ ” 

Jongin’s heart stutters in his chest. “I know,” he says. “And you might have to die with me.”

Minseok stares back at him, silent, jaw set. Jongin can feel his sudden panic, his uncertainty, his fear. He can feel it all, just like he feels it in himself. But Minseok says, “Okay.”

“What?” squawks Luhan. “You can’t actually be agreeing to this, Minseok!”

“Jongin’s right,” Minseok says, without looking away from him. His gaze is steady, eyes hard. “As far as we know, we’re the _only_ pair capable of this kind of thing. Joonmyun said he’d never even heard of this kind of stuff before. Jongin never has either. But we’re well aware of our own ability to manipulate black energy.”

“You’re _not_ going to sacrifice yourself for this,” Joonmyun says, voice rising. He’s going to give them away. Not that it matters that much, at this point. 

“Omega had to,” Jongin says. “I have to, too.”

Minseok stares him straight in the eye and nods, just once.

Jongin had so many doubts about him, back when they first paired up. But he should have known he’d pull through in the end, no questions asked.

Jongin sighs, runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes. “It’s like a...like a larger, more extreme version of Sehun’s brain sickness. Way more extreme. But maybe I could do it. I just. I would need so much good energy to counteract it. We’ve gotten better since then, more efficient, but this is enormous. We’d need such a big pocket of energy to do this in one go.”

There’s a heavy pause. No one says anything—no one wants to encourage Jongin to go through with this. But Jongin knows he’ll have to. He’s already accepted it. 

“The Valley,” Minseok says suddenly. 

Jongin’s eyes snap open. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“The Valley. That was...that was Omega’s Reward. For their sacrifice. You said they mentioned it, right? Hoped it would bless people in the future, or whatever? That’s why it’s so strong. Their Reward turned into the fucking Valley, with the fucking tree,” Jongin says. He shakes his head. “And now we’re going to have to use it to do the same thing they sacrificed their lives for in the first place.”

Joonmyun and Yixing look dazed as understanding dawns over them. None of them have ever actually _been_ to the Valley, but they’ve heard about it. Huge, rich patch of fertile land. An enormous, but as of yet unrecognizable tree bearing fruit at its center. A post-apocalyptic oasis. Mysterious, unexplainable, in the middle of Earth’s wreckage. 

A huge Reward, for a huge sacrifice. 

“How is this supposed to even _work?_ ” asks Baekhyun, looking more baffled than anything. All of the non-paranormals have mostly been watching everything unfold in confused silence. 

Jongin takes a deep breath. “Essentially, I’d have to get close enough to the Valley to tap into its energy reserves. Maybe even be _in_ it. And then I’d have to pull all the black energy from here—tear it right out of the people, suck it out the the community—and funnel it into Minseok, and he’d convert it and control it, and then we’d...lock it back up, I guess. It’s like they said. Evil this big can’t be destroyed, only contained. That seems to be our only option.”

“Okay, but…” Baekhyun says slowly. “Isn’t our old...container busted? Like, isn’t that why this is happening? Do you just so happen to have another sickness-proof container lying around?”

Jongin blinks at him, caught off guard. “Oh… No, we don’t have anything like that.”

“So what are we gonna do?” says Jongdae. 

For a second, Jongin’s mind spins. A container. They need a container. Something no one will ever open again. Something that not even a dedicated, self-taught Fixer would think to pry apart. 

Oh. 

“I don’t have anything like that,” Jongin admits. “But I know someone who could make one.”

“Who?” Joonmyun asks, perplexed. 

Jongin smiles a little. “Some of you might know him. He’s a prisoner here.” Something clicks in his head. “And my best friend’s brother was his guard.”

Baekhyun and Yifan light up simultaneously. “Chanyeol.”

***

Kyungsoo hasn’t been on active soldier duty since the sickness was released. The rest of the military has been busy under Victoria’s lead, getting away from X-22 and simultaneously fighting relentlessly for rights to the Valley, but Kyungsoo has been left behind, forgotten. He wonders, sitting at home with Sehun, if it’s because they suspect he was involved in orchestrating the plague’s release somehow, if they no longer trust him in such a central role. On the one hand, that enrages his—he can’t believe anyone would think he would willingly inflict that much damage on his own community, his own family. But at the same time, he sees the same pattern his superiors likely do—bad things have been happening in X-22, and Kyungsoo has been suspiciously present in all of them. 

Since then, he’s spent all his time at home, like everyone else, keeping Sehun company and waiting around for meals. Jongin visits them a couple times a day, with Minseok in tow, making sure neither of them have caught sick. He always looks so worn out, so frail and unsteady on his feet. Kyungsoo is worried about him, and he knows Sehun is even more so. 

He’s not all that surprised when Jongin shows up, again, knocking on his door, letting himself in, followed by Minseok. 

He is _very_ surprised, however, when the paranormal pair is followed by Yixing and Joonmyun, back from the dead, and then Luhan, a face Kyungsoo only vaguely recognizes, and then three strangers, one clinging to another’s back. They all squeeze into Kyungsoo’s house as he gapes, and then Jongin turns to him and says, “Kyungsoo, we need your help.”

“Uh...what? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain in a second,” Jongin says. “But we need to know if you know where Chanyeol is, and how to break him out.”

Kyungsoo stares in slack-jawed bewilderment for another moment, then says, “He...I mean, I could probably figure something out if pressed.”

“You’re being pressed,” Jongin informs him—calm, straightforward, nothing like the shy, uncertain boy Kyungsoo introduced Sehun to less than three months ago.

Kyungsoo shakes his head, laughing slightly. He knows something bad is coming, but at the moment, all he can feel is relief. “Fill me in.”

The plan is insane. The backstory even more so. Sehun cries out in objection and pain when Jongin admits that he’s going to fight the plague with his own life, and that’s the first time Kyungsoo sees the young sorcerer falter, face crumpling briefly. Kyungsoo holds onto his brother’s arm, pulls him close. This is Jongin’s decision, and it looks like he’s already made up his mind. 

In the space of a few minutes, Kyungsoo is introduced to Yifan and Baekhyun—two people Chanyeol has mentioned, if only briefly. He’s also introduced to Chanyeol’s plant, the one grown from the seed Kyungsoo gave him when they were kids. He has to laugh at that. He’s heard more about this damn plant than he heard about both of Chanyeol’s best friends combined. 

“Okay,” Kyungsoo says at last, still trying to absorb everything he was just told but also realizing that time is short. “Chanyeol isn’t in the storehouse anymore, but the puzzle box is, and so are all of his tools and things. Which means we’re going to have to break him _out_ of jail and _into_ his workshop so that he can get the materials he needs to do whatever it is he has to do.”

“Oh, god,” groans Yifan from the corner. 

Kyungsoo smiles a little. “Don’t worry about it. All of our soldiers are at the Dead Zone right now, which means it’s only amateurs doing the guarding, and very few people know what the hell is going on. So convincing them of anything won’t be incredibly hard.”

“You have a plan?” Jongin asks, eyes wide. 

Kyungsoo smiles ruefully. “To be entirely honest, I’ve had several plans for the past month and a half.”

Chanyeol’s friends light up, and Minseok gives an approving nod. As it turns out, more people are in support of betraying his community than he expected. 

 

Kyungsoo designs his double-jailbreak in fifteen high-pressure minutes. “What we have to work with are four members of X-22—one soldier that’s not considered very trustworthy, one former-soldier-now-Grower, one paranormal-plus-Builder, one just-paranormal—and one person that is accepted as X-22—occupation Builder. And then two more members of X-22, paranormals, who are presumed dead and would scare the shit out of everyone. And on top of that, three members of Q-16—one Builder, one soldier, one mostly-useless invalid with a faulty photographic memory.”

Everyone stares back at him, uneasy. Kyungsoo isn’t exactly selling their case. “Right,” confirms Jongin uncertainly. 

“That’s good,” Kyungsoo says. “We can use that.”

“We can?” says Jongdae, eyebrows raised. 

“The Sixers will be staying here, out of sight. They’re pretty useless. If you hear yelling, come save our asses,” Kyungsoo says. 

“Sounds exciting,” is Baekhyun’s dry response. 

“I’m not dragging a group of ten all over the community. Stay out of trouble until I need you,” Kyungsoo tells him, stern. 

“What about me?” Luhan asks, raising his hand. 

“You’re coming. I need your Builder persona to get into places.”

“That was my job earlier,” Jongdae says smugly. 

“Sehun, you’ll be getting Chanyeol out of jail,” Kyungsoo says briskly. 

“What?” Sehun yelps. 

“All of his guards right now are amateurs. You were trained, originally, as a soldier. You fit the bill perfectly. You’ll go up to the guards on shift, tell them Boa assigned you to take over, say Chanyeol hasn’t tried anything yet so we’re cutting it down to one guard at a time. I doubt they’ll argue. They don’t know what’s going on any more than we do, and guard duty is shit.”

Sehun is wide-eyed and visibly nervous, but he nods bravely. Kyungsoo hates putting him in danger, but today, it’s necessary.

“The main problem there is that his new prison is near Boa’s office, and it’s in the center of the community. People might be watching, or listening in. So don’t give yourself away, even after the old guards are gone. Stand guard and wait for me. Ignore Chanyeol if you have to. While you’re taking over their shift, I’ll be dropping by the armoury to get helmets and things. Armoured soldiers leaving Chanyeol’s prison is a lot less suspicious than, well, Chanyeol, me, and my brother. Plus, I can get us some emergency weapons.”

“Can you get into the armoury okay?” Minseok asks, one eyebrow quirked. 

“I’m still a soldier, even if they don’t let me do anything anymore. People recognize me as a soldier. And besides, no one’s going to be there, they’re all at the Dead Zone.” Kyungsoo takes a deep breath. “While we’re getting Chanyeol out, Jongin and Minseok will be luring the guards away from the storehouse. I don’t care what you guys tell them, I don’t care if you lie out your asses, but convince them that they’re about to die if they don’t leave. The box is in there. Use that knowledge to your advantage. Luhan, once the guards are gone, you’ll be heading over there to break us in.”

“Why me?” Luhan asks, voice breaking slightly. 

“Because people know who you are, and you have the excuse of Builder to use if anyone asks you what you’re doing,” Kyungsoo tells him. “Pay attention. The front door of the storehouse will be locked, and the guards may not even have the key. No one’s supposed to be going in there. But there’s a full-wall overhead door on the western side that they might have left unlocked—it’s how they got the Machine out. If it’s not unlocked, force your way in. Yifan has a blaster; blow the lock off if you have to. It’s far enough away that no one will pay too much attention to the sound. If they do, tell them you’re doing extra Builder work to make sure the box is locked tight inside, whatever. Once it’s open, come get us, we’ll be hiding out here. We’ll all head to the storehouse together and stay in there. It’s out of the way, no one bothers looking out there, and it’s spacious.” He swallows hard. “And that’s how we’re gonna do this.”

Everyone stares at him, and silence reigns for a few tense seconds. Then, hesitantly, Jongin asks, “What if something goes wrong?”

“Improvise,” Kyungsoo says. “Lie. Make shit up. We have no backup plan, apart from our Sixers and our presumed-dead paranormals running intervention. So do your best to get your job done.”

It’s a messy plan. There’s a lot of room for error. But they don’t have time to come up with anything more sophisticated. They don’t have the resources to think up anything more reliable. This is all they have. 

“Just make sure Chanyeol is safe,” Baekhyun tells him, chewing on his lip. 

Kyungsoo cracks a slight smile. “I want him to get out of this alive as much as you do, Baekhyun.”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows twitch up. “Yeah?”

Kyungsoo takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, and then Baekhyun says, “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early and not answering any comments because I have no laptop atm and computer access is depressingly limited. SORRY. I am reading and appreciating your comments and theories uwu <333
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	21. Chapter 21

It’s so dark in Chanyeol’s new prison. He was moved here a couple days before his puzzle box was opened—and he knows it was, because he was questioned about it _very_ thoroughly—because he was considered dangerous around his tools, and at first, he hadn’t cared. They were all prisons. 

But now, he cares. The windows are boarded up, the door is solid, and only faint trickles of light seep through, leaving him in eternal near-blackness. And there’s nothing to do. Nothing he can build with his hands, nothing to keep him distracted from his thoughts, which grow darker every day. 

It’s been eight days, he thinks, since he saw Kyungsoo. Eight days since he last heard a friendly voice, since he saw someone smile at him. Since he still felt any semblance of sanity. Now he just sits in the dark, day in and day out, gets up to stretch his aching limbs, eats small, sporadic meals, whispers to himself just to hear something. It’s so quiet inside his prison. So cold. So lonely. 

The days run into each other. Every time the door opens, part of Chanyeol hopes it’s to drag him out, kill him. Finally. But the other part of him is terrified of that possibility. Even when death would be preferable, his survival instincts kick in, try to keep him alive. He eats when food is given to him. He sleeps as much as he can. He exists, but little else. 

And then, one day, he hears a voice he recognizes. It’s not talking to him—never talking to him—but he knows that he knows it, even if it takes him a minute to place it. It’s talking to the guards posted outside his door, telling them he’s here to relieve them, per Boa’s orders. Leave him the keys and a blaster. 

It’s Sehun. Kyungsoo’s brother Sehun. Hope flutters dangerously in Chanyeol’s chest, and he tries desperately to quash it. He can’t handle disappointment at this point. 

The voices converse briefly, and then the two former guards leave. With bated breath, Chanyeol waits for something to happen. 

But nothing does. Sehun is silent, the door remains closed, and Chanyeol is still alone with his laboured breaths. 

“Sehun?” he says quietly, voice rough. “Are you there?”

There’s no answer. Chanyeol can’t even tell if Sehun is still standing guard. 

“Sehun?” Chanyeol asks again, desperate. “Sehun, is something—is something happening? Please answer me.”

But he doesn’t. Chanyeol’s chest collapses, heart squeezing painfully. Was it even Sehun’s voice that he heard? He would never doubt himself if it was Kyungsoo’s, or even Seulgi’s or Joohyun’s, but he heard Sehun’s a lot less. And even if it was Sehun’s voice he heard, Chanyeol certainly wouldn’t put it past his mind to be playing tricks on him. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought he heard a voice that wasn’t really there. 

Minutes pass, and Chanyeol stews in his misery. What is he supposed to do? He has no idea what’s in his future, or ever how long his future _goes_. The uncertainty eats at him. Should he be planning an escape? He knows he probably wouldn’t get five feet outside his prison, but at least he would have tried. And then at least it would be over. The waiting. The loneliness. 

There’s a scuffle of feet in front of Chanyeol’s door, and then a rattle of metal against metal. The door opens, and for the first time in over a week, it’s not the nose of a blaster gun that Chanyeol sees first. 

It’s a face. Most of it is covered by a rudimentary mask-helmet combo, but the eyes are showing. It’s hard to see whoever it is, with the sun at their back and shadow falling across their face, but hell if Chanyeol doesn’t recognize them immediately anyway. It’s a face that’s been haunting his dreams for months now. 

“Kyungsoo?” he breathes, heart hammering against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears, limbs weak with disbelief as he clambers to his feet. 

A finger is raised to the figure’s face, in front of his mouth, although Chanyeol can’t see it. Then he steps in, drops an armful of supplies, and walks forward to wrap Chanyeol in a hug. 

Chanyeol cries.

He can’t help it. He’s so overwhelmed, so relieved, and he has never felt something more earth-shattering than Kyungsoo’s arms around him after days of solitary confinement. It’s a shock to his system; it feels like a scab being ripped off and a warm bath all at once. He breaks down, utterly and completely, before he even knows why Kyungsoo is here. It hardly matters to him, in that moment. If Chanyeol is about to die, at least he will have had this singular moment of comfort before that. 

But then Kyungsoo pulls away, holds Chanyeol’s face between warm hands—god, Chanyeol never wants him to let go—and says, “This is a rescue, but I won’t lie and say it isn’t for reasons other than just getting you out of here. We need your help, Yeol.”

Chanyeol’s heart thuds, chest still heaving. “What?”

“Put on this helmet. I’ll explain everything in a minute. Can you walk okay? Are you injured?”

Chanyeol shakes his head mutely. He has some bruises, some fresh wounds, but nothing that would incapacitate him. He’s been that lucky, at least.

“Good. Great. Come on, there are some people who are dying to see you.” Kyungsoo smiles—his eyes smile—and Chanyeol’s stomach twists. He doesn’t even want to blink. 

Kyungsoo helps Chanyeol put on the helmet and some light makeshift armour, and then, quietly, they ease themselves out of the building. 

“Act natural,” Kyungsoo says, voice low, not looking at him. Chanyeol finds it hard to do so when he’s blinking against the glaring sunlight after being in the dark for so long. “Sehun, you go a different way and pick up some food from the kitchens—say they missed our house or something. Meet us at home.”

Sehun nods and walks away without another word, his gait stiff but his face revealing nothing. 

“We’ll go straight home,” Kyungsoo says quietly, and then he starts walking, too. Chanyeol stumbles after him, breathing hard, his heart loud in his ears. He feels exposed, tense, vulnerable. He feels like he’s dreaming, but that it could turn into a nightmare at any second. Is this really happening? He wants to reach out for Kyungsoo’s hand, seek reassurance, seek comfort, but he knows that’s too dangerous. He keeps his hands to himself and follows Kyungsoo blindly, not daring to look around, barely daring to even breathe. 

Eventually, Chanyeol looks up and sees, in the distance, fields, and among them, the storehouse where he’d lived and worked for the past three months. Mentally, he recoils, horror curling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to go back there. He doesn’t want to be stuck there again. 

But then Kyungsoo stops, turns, opens the door to a house. “Get in,” he murmurs. 

Swallowing hard, Chanyeol obeys. 

Inside sit five people, three of whom Chanyeol knows, two of whom walk in his dreams every time he closes his eyes. He wrenches off his helmet, throat closing up. “Yifan? Baekhyun?”

Yifan all but pounces on him. His arms are strong, his warmth familiar, and Chanyeol clings to him, unbelieving. Maybe he really has gone insane. At this point, though, he can’t bring himself to care. Insanity is sweet. 

After a long minute, Yifan pulls away—too soon—and holds Chanyeol by the shoulders, looks over him, joy and relief clear on his face. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, cheeks wet, and Chanyeol laughs brokenly because he doesn’t _feel_ okay. He feels like he’s drowning. But maybe in a good way. 

“Chanyeol,” says Baekhyun behind him, and Jongdae—an odd face to see, but not an unwelcome one—is helping him walk towards him. Chanyeol breaks away from Yifan, meets him in the middle, holds onto him so that he can never get away again. After a moment, he feels Yifan’s arms around both of them, and Chanyeol revels in their warmth, their solidity, their realness. He closes his eyes and just _feels_ , as much as he is capable. If this is a dream, if it’s a lie, then he wants to soak it in as much as he can before it’s taken away from him. 

They stand there, holding onto each other, holding each other together, until the door opens again, and Chanyeol startles away, on guard. 

It’s just Sehun, though, balancing two trays on top of one another in his arms. “This is all I could get,” he says, looking around bashfully. 

“We’ll grab stuff from the fields as we pass through,” Kyungsoo says, shaking his head. “Thanks, Sehun. Put them down, we’ll share.”

Chanyeol feels jittery and unstable as he sits on the floor next between his best friends, finding comfort in the press of their knees against his own. He eats what is handed to him—more than is given to anyone else—and finally dares to ask, “What’s going on?”

The story that follows is as hard to believe as it is incredibly cathartic. Chanyeol is confused, but somehow, things make sense. He’s been more removed from everything that’s been going on than anyone else, but everything he has seen suddenly makes sense.

“Is that my plant?” he interrupts abruptly, looking at the familiar pot and familiar leaves that sit next to the wall. 

“Oh. Yeah. I brought it with me for emergencies,” Baekhyun says, cracking a smile. 

Chanyeol holds out his hands for it, and someone—he doesn’t even pay attention to who—fetches it and places it in his hold. Grinning softly, Chanyeol touches its leaves, runs his thumb along the stalk. It’s still healthy, strong. Still thriving in this broken, messed up world. It’s kind of poetic.

“Okay,” he says on a sigh. “Keep talking.” 

He learns a lot of new things. That Baekhyun was injured. That X-22’s paranormal pair was kidnapped and held hostage, just as Chanyeol was. That Yifan was trying to rescue him, like Chanyeol always believed he would. That he just couldn’t do it in time. That Luhan’s been inside X-22 this whole time, looking for him, searching for a way to save him, just out of sight. 

He learns that Luhan is here now, at the storehouse with Jongin and his conjurer partner, because the real reason Chanyeol was broken out of jail was because they need him to make a new container to hold the whole fucking plague. 

“What if I can’t do it?” he asks, dazed, feeling panic build in his chest. “What if I just can’t?”

“Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo says, voice low, soothing. “You took apart and put back together a _working_ piece of high-tech, century-old machinery. I _know_ you can do it.”

Chanyeol swallows hard, hands shaking. “I have to, don’t I.” It’s not a question. 

Five faces stare back at him. They don’t say anything, but that’s confirmation enough. 

 

The storehouse looks exactly how Chanyeol left it. His tools are lined up on the floor and along the walls, his blueprints are spread out around them; there is still mold in the corners, oil stains next to where his bed used to lie. His friends and rescuers slide through the gap in the door that Luhan has opened for them, the lock a mangled mess on the hard ground, and look around in wonder and horror. 

“This is where you lived?” Baekhyun asks, holding onto Yixing’s hands as he struggles to his feet. 

“Yeah,” Chanyeol sighs. “Home sweet home.”

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo says quietly, eyes cast down. 

Chanyeol shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault.” He turns, finds his puzzle box on his old desk. “Damn, they really did a number on that thing.”

Jongin looks nervous as he walks towards it. “Be careful,” he says. “It’s leaking disease.”

“If I’m going to catch it, it’ll happen no matter where I am,” Chanyeol says with a shrug. 

Jongin doesn’t seem reassured, but he backs off, looking positively sick himself. Sehun clings to his arm, and Minseok lays a steady hand on his shoulder. 

Chanyeol heard about Jongin’s plan to sacrifice himself, as Omega did before him. He hates it as much as anyone, but knows it’s not his decision to make. 

“So what’s the plan?”

Chanyeol turns, sees Kyungsoo standing beside him, jaw set, eyes hard. He wishes Kyungsoo would smile, but understands that now isn’t the time for joy. “I’m going to repurpose the box we already have,” he says, picking it up, looking it over. “I’m assuming it’s made of a non-porous material, and it’s solid. And then I’m going to make a bigger box to seal it in after everything’s inside. That one will have to be airtight, but only for as long as it takes for me to stick it in a _third_ box, which I’ll weld shut around all the edges.”

“Okay,” Kyungsoo says, like he always does when Chanyeol is explaining his work to him. Like he believes in Chanyeol’s capabilities completely. “What can I do to help?”

Chanyeol blinks at him, surprised. “What?”

“I want to help. I don’t know any of the technique, but I can hand you shit, and I can talk through things with you.” Kyungsoo looks up at him, face open, earnest. 

“O...okay,” Chanyeol says. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Kyungsoo’s lips twitch up in a smile. “How long do you think this might take?”

Chanyeol sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “A couple hours? Usually I would take several _days_ to design and then put together something like this, something finicky, that needs to be airtight but also able to open and close. But...I’ll try to go as fast as I can.”

“That’s fine, Chanyeol. Just do your best.” Kyungsoo reaches out, squeezes his wrist. The casual, comforting contact is still a shock to Chanyeol’s system. “Jongin, Minseok, you two rest up. Okay? I’m assuming you’ll need all the energy you can get.”

Jongin nods slowly. “Don’t know if I’ll be able to get much sleep…”

“Try,” Kyungsoo says. “Go home. We’ll come get you if and when anything happens. Sehun, do you want to go with them? Joonmyun and Yixing, too, if you guys want. You don’t really need to be here.”

Sehun and Joonmyun nod, but Yixing says, “I’d rather stay.” He glances at Baekhyun, who smiles weakly. Joonmyun clasps his hand tightly, then follows the younger boys as they slip back outside and head for Jongin’s home, Sehun clinging to Jongin’s hand. Luhan and Minseok exchange a look by the door, but in the end, Minseok looks away first, sliding out through the gap, following his partner back towards the community. 

It leaves the men of Q-16 and Kyungsoo behind, faced with tools and machinery parts most of them don’t know anything about. Baekhyun makes himself comfortable against the wall, with Yixing and Jongdae on either side of him, and Luhan next to Jongdae. Yifan hovers next to Chanyeol for a while, but eventually realizes he’s only getting in the way and joins his friends on the floor. Kyungsoo sticks to his side, hands ready, eyes bright. 

Chanyeol places his plant on his desk, closes his eyes briefly, and gets to work.

 

Building a new box to hold the plague is just as stressful and challenging as Chanyeol had expected. Moreso, even. He wipes nervous sweat from his forehead constantly as he sketches out drafts, searches for appropriate materials, tries things out. He burns himself as he’s welding pieces of metal together, he cuts his hands on jagged corners. He shakes so badly he can barely draw a straight line. 

When that happens, Kyungsoo reaches out, lays his palm over Chanyeol’s hand, looks up at him with a gaze so steady that Chanyeol’s breathing evens out automatically, his tremors gentle. Kyungsoo gives him a soft smile, wipes beads of blood from Chanyeol’s fingers, and encourages him to continue. 

The storehouse is mostly quiet, apart from the quiet conversation going on along the wall behind Chanyeol from his friends. Usually, it would be distracting, but today it’s comforting, knowing they’re still there, that he can turn around and look at them and make sure they really exist. He thinks that’s probably why Kyungsoo didn’t tell them to leave. 

The plant is a comfort, too, a familiar sight even after all this time, reminding him of why he’s alive, why he’s still fighting, even when everything seems hopeless. If Chanyeol’s plant, so delicate and fragile, can overcome odds, can grow roots and brave the harshness of the world to thrive here on earth, then so can he. So can humanity. 

Hours pass, Chanyeol thinks. He’s not really paying attention to the passing of time, but the shadows move on the floor of the storehouse, and Chanyeol gets work done. He seals up most of the openings in the puzzle box, builds another box large enough to hold it, seals eight of its edges and constructs a lid for the top, pipes silicone along the sides for an airtight seal. He tests it, finds faults, searches for solutions, tests it again. He hunts for ways to latch it, to lock the lid in place. His first attempt wrecks his lid, and he has to make a new one, swallowing down his frustration. Kyungsoo stands beside him, looks for hinges with him, rests a calming hand on the small of his back to soothe him. 

Behind them, Yixing pulls Baekhyun up off the floor, leads him around the room, holding onto his hands, saying he can’t give up on his physio now. Chanyeol turns, watches, smiles at them. Baekhyun blushes as Yixing brushes a kiss across his cheek. 

Seems like Baekhyun has a star-crossed lovers thing going on, too. 

No, no, not _too_. Chanyeol has to remember that. That only happens in his dreams. 

He focuses on the task at hand. Planning, sketching, finding the right parts, putting them together, checking that they function as he needs them to. Correcting the mistakes he makes in his rush to finish as quickly as possible. He hovers between thinking about how much is at stake if he fails, and trying not to let that distract him from his goal. He can’t afford to scare himself so badly he can’t concentrate, but at the same time he has to realize that it’s vital that he does this right. 

Kyungsoo keeps him on track with quiet words, soft touches, and that same steady confidence and endless compassion that made Chanyeol fall for him in the first place. 

He makes Chanyeol think that he can do this.

Of course, Kyungsoo’s support isn’t the only thing that could make or break his success. Chanyeol is just flipping down his welding mask to join two sheets of metal together when a cold voice says, “Put down the torch and step away from the table.”

Chanyeol whips around in shock, heart pounding frantically, and sees Boa standing at the barred door, blaster raised and pointed at his chest. 

In the next moment, though, Kyungsoo is stepping in front of Chanyeol, lifting his own blaster in response, his stance solid. “No.” 

Boa looks stunned, and then much less so. “Kyungsoo. Why am I not surprised you’re the one behind this?”

“Because I’m the only one with a functioning conscience in this whole damn community?” Kyungsoo suggests, voice clipped. Then he sighs. “Boa, I understand this looks bad, but you have no idea what’s happening.”

“Quite right,” Boa says, lips pressed together. 

“It’s complicated,” Kyungsoo says. His blaster hasn’t dropped an inch. 

He’s threatening his community leader to protect Chanyeol. 

“What’s complicated is that there are no guards posted outside our prisoner’s quarters, despite the fact that I assigned _two_ to be there, and there are no guards here either, and our prisoner has been given free reign of his tools after constructing not one, but _two_ deadly devices that could and might destroy our entire community,” Boa says, one eyebrow lifting. 

Kyungsoo doesn’t falter for even a second, even as Chanyeol wilts with shame. 

“Throw us out later,” he says, unwavering. “I don’t fucking care. But right now, we have things that are a little more important than your paranoia.”

“You don’t think my paranoia is warranted?” Boa asks. “My own soldier is pointing his blaster at me.”

“I am not _your soldier_. I never pledged blind, unquestioning allegiance to you. I have full right to doubt your methods and your ideologies. And I understand and acknowledge your fears and the decisions you’ve made because of them. But they have no place here.” Kyungsoo adjusts his grip on his blaster. “Let’s discuss my exile later. Right now, your _prisoner_ is trying to save _your_ community.” 

Boa blinks at him in surprise. “What?”

Kyungsoo waves his hand dismissively. “Of course, _now_ you’d like the whole story. Yeol, how close do you think you are to being done?”

Chanyeol’s heart is beating loudly, but at this point he’s not sure if it’s from fear or emotion. “An hour, tops?” he stutters. 

“Great. Awesome. Luhan, you have that long to explain, through the door, what’s going on to her. Yifan, keep your blaster on her. Your turn to be prisoner, Boa.” Kyungsoo flashes a grin. “No disrespect intended.”

Chanyeol is embarrassed of the way his heart flutters.

Boa looks flustered, and even more so when Luhan creeps out of hiding from his spot against the wall and tentatively begins relaying the story to her piece by piece. Yifan keeps his blaster up even after Boa has lowered hers—they’re not taking chances. 

“Thank you,” Chanyeol murmurs, ducking his head as he turns back to his work. 

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Me standing up for you now doesn’t right all the wrongs I’ve committed, by action as well as inaction, in the past. But I’m going to do my best to make it up to you.”

Chanyeol swallows hard and doesn’t bother mentioning that he forgave Kyungsoo a long time ago.

“If you’re telling the truth, I need to go tell people,” Boa argues at the end of Luhan’s long-winded explanation, when Chanyeol is putting the finishing touches on his triad of boxes. 

“We don’t need more people swarming us and causing a ruckus,” Kyungsoo says, shaking his head as he hands Chanyeol a screwdriver. 

“The Valley is not very far away from the Dead Zone. Which is where _both_ of our militaries are,” Boa reminds him. 

“What would we do? Walk into open fire, try to call a truce? You think that would work?” Kyungsoo holds the box steady as Chanyeol tightens a screw in the hinge. “We’ll deal with them when the time comes.”

“Seems dangerous,” Boa warns. 

Kyungsoo turns to look at her. “It’s very dangerous. People might die. But you know what’s even more dangerous? Doing _nothing_. Which is what you’ve been doing, by the way, and is also what I have been doing so far. I’m done doing nothing.”

Boa gives him a long, steady look. “You’d make a good soldier, Kyungsoo, if you could learn to follow orders,” she says, approval colouring her voice. 

“You’d make a good leader, Boa, if you could give orders that didn’t demand opposition.” Kyungsoo smiles slightly. 

Boa chuckles lightly and shakes her head. “You are...something else.”

Kyungsoo nods. “I aim to be.”

Chanyeol smiles to himself, tests the clasps on his second box. They click into place smoothly. “I think I’m done.”

Kyungsoo turns back to him, places a hand on his waist as he leans over. “You think?”

Chanyeol hesitates, plays with the clasps for another second. “I’m done,” he amends. 

“Excellent. You’re incredible, Chanyeol, I mean it. Can someone go get Jongin? And Sixers, we’re gonna need that truck of yours.”

All heads turn to face him. Kyungsoo looks determined, unstoppable, fearless. Everything that Chanyeol is currently lacking. 

He doesn’t really need it, though, with Kyungsoo in the lead. “Alright, men,” Kyungsoo says, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

***

Jongin doesn’t want to die. 

He knows going against the plague is a suicide mission. He knows it will likely be too much for him; a sorcerer who came into his powers too young, who still gets overwhelmed daily, who barely got any formal training, who has only been working with his conjurer for three months. He knows it’s unlikely that he’ll live through this. 

But he doesn’t want to die. 

He’s scared. He’s so scared that he considers, lying there on his bed mat and trying to get a few hours of sleep, running away from everything. If he ran far enough, maybe he would be able to get away from the plague. From the pain and the fear and the very real possibility of death. 

But he knows he can’t. He knows he won’t. His parents gave their lives to purge the plague from his body. Maybe they knew, back then, that someday he would have to do the same to purge the plague from the earth. Maybe they saw something in him that Jongin has never seen in himself. Strength. Purpose. Worth. 

Sehun lies beside him, and Jongin can feel the tension in his body. He knows Sehun isn’t sleeping. He knows he’s causing Sehun pain. 

He wishes he could take that out of him, the same way he took out the sickness in his brain. 

But no. Pain has a purpose. Sadness has a purpose, and so does fear, and anger, and joy. They make you human. They tell you that something is wrong, or that something is right. They help you cope with loss, and they help you celebrate victories. They bring people together. 

Silently, Jongin hopes that his sacrifice will bring people together, too. 

Across the room, Minseok slumbers, too—or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he, too, drifts in and out of consciousness, dreaming, wondering, knowing this might be the end. Jongin feels guilty for making him do this. Minseok has a family, has people that rely on him. Jongin hates himself for tearing him away from them. 

He tries to force himself to sleep. He knows he needs it. But it’s so hard when his stomach is twisting up in knots, his heart is hammering against his ribs, his head is full of doubts and fears and _what ifs._

Eventually, Yixing comes to wake him and the others. Jongin stands up numbly, listens only halfheartedly to what people are saying around him. Minseok stands beside him, steady and familiar. Sehun holds onto his hand. Jongin walks where he’s led, climbs up onto a wheeled contraption he’s never seen before. The others climb up with him. Boa is there, and he hears some people questioning her presence, but Jongin doesn’t care. Other people come out of their houses, too, gather in front of them—the wheeled machine makes a lot of noise. Jongin doesn’t care about them, either. He squeezes Sehun’s hand, keeps his eyes on the puzzle box in Chanyeol’s. Everything else feels very far away. Like Jongin is still asleep—still in a nightmare—except the nightmare is real life. 

They drive to the Valley, and Jongin sees it for the first time. A sprawling patch of overgrown grass, a sparkling pond nestled between reeds and flowering weeds, a solid tree at the center, easily fifteen feet high, its trunk a foot wide. Fruit hangs heavy from its branches, and more lie rotting in the grass below it. Jongin walks towards it in a daze, presses his hand to its smooth bark. He can’t tell, without probing, that it’s a Reward. It’s likely uncommonly strong, remarkably able to withstand harsh conditions, but Jongin has no point of reference with trees. This is the only one he’s ever seen. 

When he reaches out with his mind, though, touches the energy deep inside the tree’s core, he can feel its personality, passed on from the souls that gave it life. He can feel the person within the wood, immortalized through sacrifice. 

He wonders if his sacrifice will produce something similar. Maybe he’ll just be immortalized through a scraggly little weed. 

A hand touches his elbow, and Jongin turns to see Minseok watching him. “Ready?” he asks softly. 

Minseok is scared. Jongin can feel it; it permeates his wavelengths, nearly consumes him. Somehow, it comforts Jongin. It reminds him that he’s not alone in this. He’s not alone in his fear. It makes him feel stronger. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. 

“Let’s go.”

Nobody cries. Jongin is glad; he thinks he might start crying if someone else did. Sehun hugs him, squeezes him tightly. So does Kyungsoo, and then Yixing and Joonmyun. They tell him he’s so brave, they’re so proud of him. They don’t say they’ll miss him, or anything like that. They don’t acknowledge that tomorrow, he might be gone. 

But Jongin hears it anyway, in their choked voices and stilted words. 

He stands with Minseok in the grass next to the pond, and Minseok turns to him, jaw set. Jongin reaches for him, and Minseok catches his hand, his rough palm warm and comforting. “Thank you,” Jongin says, and then his throat closes up and he can’t go on. He can’t say _thank you for helping me help others._ He can’t say _thank you for making me stronger. Thank you for making me better._ He can’t say _thank you for giving me a family when I had none._

He thinks Minseok hears it anyway. His partner nods, swallows hard. “I’m...proud to stand beside you,” he says, and his voice is rough. 

Jongin draws a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and lets the energy pummeling against his defenses flow into him. 

It feels like stepping out into a storm, except it’s stronger than any storm Jongin’s ever seen. They’ve seen one or two pretty heavy rainfalls since the resurfacing, some pretty strong gales, but nothing comes close to the power of the warring energies that immediately flood Jongin’s body. It’s two crashing typhoons, pushing against Jongin’s skin, raging through his veins, consuming him. It hurts—Jongin thinks he screams. But the pain is grounding. He stands firm, locks his knees, and _pulls._ He doesn’t just let it in. He pulls as hard as he can, funnels it out of his body and into Minseok’s, pushing past their limits. He pulls and he pulls and he pulls, black and light energy in equal measures, an overpowering current running through him from the ground. 

Beside him, Minseok works hard, and he works fast. He condenses, converts, creates. He builds a solid mass of black energy and wraps a net of raw energy around it, reining it in, keeping it under control, blanketing it so that it doesn’t kill Jongin on its way back through him. 

In normal circumstances, Jongin would be in awe. But right now, that’s not his problem. Right now, he has an important job to do, an important role to fulfill. And he puts his all into it. He draws on every ounce of willpower, all his anger at their broken world, all his regret, all the tears he’s shed to get up to this point. He thinks about the families who will lose children or parents if he does not succeed. He thinks about all the people who will die, he thinks about all the people who already _have_ died at the hands of this sickness. He thinks about the people who sacrificed their lives to provide the energy that he’s using now. 

He thinks about the people who had to suffer so that everything would work out as it did today. So that everyone would be in the right place at the right time. The injury and the sense of revenge from Q-16 that brought Baekhyun, Yixing, and Joonmyun together so they could figure out Omega’s involvement in the first place. Liyin and Zitao’s separation that put the sorcerer in Q-16 to help them along, and the conjurer on the borders of X-22 to keep Yifan safe. Sehun’s epilepsy, which resulted in Chanyeol’s capture, which put Chanyeol in X-22, able to make the container for them right in front of the only people capable of using the it to recapture the plague. The death of Jongin’s parents, which left him alone, which brought him to X-22, where the world needs him. Every person, every tragedy, intricately placed and designed so that this, here, could take place. 

Jongin will not allow for all of that to have happened in vain. 

The sickness rips through him, tearing at his insides, boiling through his system. Jongin embraces it, uses it, feeds off of it. He drinks in the raw energy from beneath his feet, soothes it over his flayed edges, lets it chase after the plague. Good after evil. The way of the world. 

Minseok transforms it, shapes it, and Jongin pulls it back out of him, directs it back into the box on the grass, forces it through the tiny gap and into its prison, where it belongs. 

There’s so much of it. Too much. More than Jongin can handle. It’s wearing him down fast, and as he continues to pull, it resists. The sickness that is already rooted inside the people of X-22 struggles against his grip, holds onto its hosts. Jongin yells, tears at it, wrenches it free. He lets the energy of the earth pour into him, light him up, and he does things he’s never dreamed of doing before. Usually, he would be too scared. He would be fearful of it being too much for him, of it destroying him. 

He’s still scared. But he’s not letting it stop him. He _knows_ it’s destroying him, from the inside out. He embraces it. He pulls harder, even as he feels the life drain from his body. 

He lowers the walls from around his mind, he dissolves the defenses he’s spent so long building up and strengthening. He doesn’t need them anymore. He needs every ounce of power he’s been given, and he needs it now. 

The energies scream in his ears as they rush through him, louder and higher with every passing second. Jongin’s sight goes from black to white. It doesn’t make sense; his eyes are closed. But at the same time, he can’t be sure that they are. He can’t even be sure he _has_ eyes. He doesn’t feel them. He doesn’t feel anything, apart from pain and force and pressure. He doesn’t feel like he _exists_. Everything is just power, and light, and guttingly powerful energy. Louder, higher, brighter. Squeezing into a dark little box. Consuming him, bit by bit, as it passes through him. All of it. All of _him._

And then one moment of silence, of perfect serenity. One moment of victory. 

And then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^^;
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


	22. Chapter 22

A million things happen at the same time as Jongin and Minseok’s bodies crumple simultaneously. There’s a crash-bang of sound and light, and Chanyeol leaps forwards, snaps the lid of the second box shut, clamps it. Kyungsoo hands him the third box, and Chanyeol warns people to look away before lighting his welding torch. 

Baekhyun watches in stunned silence, and then a very familiar voice yells his name, and suddenly a swarm of soldiers is flooding the Valley. He sees his father at the forefront, face contorted with fear, anger, or both. But not all of the soldiers are from Q-16—he he sees others, too, and assumes they’re Exes. Clearly, a truce had been called on the battlefield long enough for the entire collective military to head their way. 

People are yelling. Sehun is sobbing, on his knees next to Jongin’s limp form. Liyin has arrived—Baekhyun doesn’t know when. She’s hovering over Minseok’s body, feeling for a pulse. Luhan kneels beside him, and the instantaneous look of relief on his face as Liyin speaks to him is telling. There is no such look on Sehun’s face. Beside Baekhyun, Yixing weeps quietly. 

“Baekhyun, get away from him!” comes his father’s voice. Baekhyun ignores it, holds tighter to Yixing’s hand. On his other side, Yifan draws his blaster, protects him. 

“The plant,” Liyin is saying loudly, frantic. “Where’s the plant?”

Zitao is pushing through growing crowds, searching. 

“Jongdae has it,” Baekhyun says, too quiet for anyone who’s asking to hear. For once, his memory doesn’t fail him.

“What?” says Joonmyun, on Yixing’s other side. His eyes are dry. Everyone has a different way of grieving. 

“Jongdae has Chanyeol’s plant. Liyin wants it.” He gestures towards her. 

“Where is he?” Joonmyun asks. 

“I think he went to go threaten someone,” Baekhyun tells him, an image of a very angry man holding a plant pot flashing through his mind. 

Somehow, Jongdae is found, and the plant is retrieved. People are milling everywhere, shouting, posturing, crying. Baekhyun steps forward, and Yixing follows him, supports him by the waist as they get closer to the bodies lying prone in the wilted grass. 

“Boost him,” Joonmyun says quietly. Then, louder, “Boost him!”

“Will that work?” Yixing asks, breathless. 

“I don’t know,” Liyin says, taking the plant from Zitao’s hands. “I don’t know. Help me.”

Yixing lets go of Baekhyun’s waist, passes him off to Jongdae, and walks with Joonmyun to kneel at Jongin’s side. The plant is placed between them. The four paranormals close their eyes, and for a moment, Baekhyun hears nothing of what goes on around them. 

Jongin’s body jerks, as if zapped. Everyone seems to hold their breath. Liyin reaches out, presses her fingers under Jongin’s jaw. 

Her throat bobs. “We have a pulse.”

Relief rushes through Baekhyun’s system, making him wobble on unsteady legs as Jongdae makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut beside him. Baekhyun didn’t know Jongin before today, but damn if that kid doesn’t deserve to live more than most people he knows. 

The Valley is absolute chaos. All of the new arrivals are confused and alarmed as to why the leaves on the tree have withered and all the fruit has fallen, blackened and inedible. Accusations and threats are being thrown around. No guns go off, but Baekhyun knows it’s just a matter of time before they do. People are angry, and confused, and scared, and this is the Valley they’ve all been fighting over for months, pinning their survival on their victory.

“Give him some space,” Liyin is saying, pushing at the people who are crowding around Jongin. Luhan does the same for Minseok, but lets a girl dressed in armour rush to his side and fall to her knees beside him—a family member, most likely. Sehun sticks close to Jongin, unwilling to let go of his hand. Yixing, eyes red and wet, strokes the younger boy’s hair, feels for his pulse again, then gets up reluctantly to return to Baekhyun’s side. 

“Baekhyun!” Community Leader has finally found him again. “Baekhyun, step away from that man right now.”

Baekhyun struggles to turn to him, holds tightly to Yixing’s hand. “No,” he says, meeting his father’s gaze unwaveringly. “I won’t.”

Community Leader stares at him, aghast. “What’s going on here? A mutiny?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you deserved one,” Baekhyun says, feeling brave in the aftermath of everything that just happened. If Jongin and Minseok can face the plague, Baekhyun can face his father. 

“Baekhyun, explain to me _right now_ what is going on. These people—our enemy—just delivered a _serious_ blow to our chances of making it through the winter. You understand that, don’t you?”

His tone, superior and condescending, is what finally causes Baekhyun to explode. “Stop calling them our enemy!” he shouts, loud enough for the people around him to fall silent and stare. “They’re not our enemy! Or if they are, it’s because you _made_ them our enemy! Which is what you _always do._ You’re so fucking paranoid that you turn down genuine offers to help and alliances, and you make people _hate us._ The reason our chances of making it through the winter are so low are because of _you._ ” 

His father stares at him, agape, face red with anger and embarrassment. “Baekhyun, you’re...confused. You’re ill.”

“I’m not confused! Stop making me feel like I’m a fucking broken piece of shit!” Baekhyun shifts his weight, takes comfort in Yixing’s arm around his waist. “I lost parts of my memories, I’m not _braindead._ ” 

“You’re still recovering,” Community Leader says firmly. 

“Yeah, I am! No thanks to you! Do you even _know_ what condition I’m in?”

“Of course I do, Baekhyun. I talk to your healing team every day.” His father’s face is hard, angry. “Do you think I went through all that trouble to make sure you survived just to ignore your health afterwards?”

“It sure feels like it!” Baekhyun yells, and his voice breaks on the last word. Is he crying? Shit. “Do you even _care_ about how I’m doing? Or do you only care if I remember the things you told me to? Do you care about the wellbeing of your only child?”

A murmur ripples through the people of Q-16, and Community Leader’s brows furrow deeply. “Baekhyun, not here,” he says, looking around. 

“Yes here!” Baekhyun says, voice rising even further. “Right now! I am _sick_ of you pretending I don’t exist other than as an asset to you! I am _sick_ of you denying the fact that I’m your son, just because you’re paranoid about something that would _never happen._ ” 

“Baek _hyun_ ,” his father says sharply. 

“No, listen!” Baekhyun says. “I’m sick of you treating me like shit, and I’m sick of you spreading your paranoid propaganda. It’s destroying our community.”

There are scandalized noises throughout the members of Q-16. No one’s ever stood up to their leader this way before. But Baekhyun thinks it’s about fucking time. 

“He has a point,” says a new voice, and Baekhyun turns to see Boa stepping forward. “I can’t say anything about how you treat your people, but your refusal to accept outside help is obviously detrimental to your community as a whole.”

Community Leader scoffs. “You know nothing about my community.”

“I know that you refused to accept aid from the paranormal community. Who have been nothing but an asset to my people, at no gain to themselves. And, it seems, they have also benefited _your_ community, despite the fact that you kidnapped them and treated them like commodities.” Boa arches an eyebrow. 

“They kidnapped my—my _son_ and took him with them back here,” Community Leader protests. 

Baekhyun sees red. He can’t even appreciate his father’s acknowledgement of their relationship, because he’s _so. angry. “We_ kidnapped _them._ And beyond that, I broke them out! I literally orchestrated their escape! And then I went with them, _willingly_ , because we wanted to save the fucking world! Don’t you _dare_ blame them for _anything_ that has happened.”

“They’ve brainwashed you!” his father insists. 

“No, _you’re_ brainwashing _everyone_. They’re not bad people! They’re the best fucking people I’ve ever met. They help people, just because they can, while _you_ go around spreading lies and assumptions and fear.”

“Sir, we’ve fought over this Valley for the past six months, and as you can see, that has now been rendered pointless,” Boa says before Community Leader can retaliate. “I think it’s clear that it’s time to stop fighting. If either of our communities are going to survive this winter, we may have to work together.”

“We can use my Machine,” Chanyeol says suddenly, walking forwards, eyes wide. “I mean. Once I disarm it. It’s for farming, right? We could use it to our advantage.”

“And the Dead Zone,” Joonmyun says, standing up from where he’s still next to Jongin’s limp form. “The earth is hard and rocky at the top, but there’s good energy beneath it. If we could break through the topsoil, we could use it. Chanyeol, could your Machine do that?”

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol admits. “Maybe.”

“It’s so dry, though,” Yixing says, frowning. “Could anything grow there, even if the soil was good?”

“Baek, what about your aqueducts?” Jongdae says. 

Baekhyun blinks at him. “What?”

“You told me once, about some aqueduct shit that you remembered from a history textbook. It was a way of transporting water to the fields, or something like that. Remember?”

An image flashes past Baekhyun’s eyes. A fading, tearing page with coloured photos. “Oh! Shit, yes. It was just a way of transporting water, but we could use it for irrigation. Pipes and ditches and stuff.” Baekhyun grins. “You’re brilliant, Jongdae.”

“We are _not_ going to be working with you,” Community Leader interjects, voice cold and hard. “What reason have you given us to extend our help? When have you ever shown us hospitality or compassion? For all we know, this could be part of a plan to bring down our community.”

“Oh my god!” Baekhyun bursts out. “You’re psychotic!”

“What?” His father looks taken aback. 

“You’re insane! They are literally showing you hospitality _right now._ They’re saying they want to _help you._ Why are you so obsessed with driving Q-16 into the ground?”

“I am _trying_ to protect my people!” Community Leader barks. 

“They shouldn’t _be_ your people!” Baekhyun yells. “You’re not a fit leader, because you’re a fucking lunatic! You’re so scared of everything that it’s going to _kill us._ You won’t accept help, and you won’t take a single risk, even when it would benefit you. You’re playing it so safe that we have no chance of surviving. This isn’t the time for being careful. This is the time to _do something._ For once, we need to help others to help ourselves. Civilisation can’t exist without _trust_ and _cooperation_ , and you are not only incapable of trusting anyone other than yourself, but you’re not _trustworthy_. You’re not helping our community. You’re leading it to a slow death.”

“We’re sick of fighting!” yells one of the soldiers of Q-16. 

“And we’re sick of knowing we’re going to die anyway!” adds another. 

“I sure as hell wouldn’t mind putting down our guns and picking up some shovels,” says the girl beside Minseok’s head—a voice from X-22. 

“I’m not a huge fan of Q-16, but if we’re all gonna die anyway, we might as well not die at each other’s hands,” puts in another Ex soldier. 

“We’re not gonna die,” Baekhyun says loudly. “We’re going to pull together, and we’re going to _live._ ” 

“What do you say?” Boa asks Community Leader. 

“No, forget what he says!” Baekhyun says before his father can even open his mouth. “We’re done listening to him. It’s time for the people of Q-16 to take their lives into their own hands.”

Beside him, Jongdae whoops, and his voice is followed by another, and then a cheer of five or six people. Baekhyun grins. For once, he doesn’t feel like Q-16 is fighting a losing battle. For once, they’re actively going to be moving forward. 

“This is insane,” his father protests. “The people chose me as their leader.”

“And now we’re _un_ choosing you,” Baekhyun tells him. “Maybe some people will stick with you. I don’t know. But I’m not going to sit around and just wait to starve.”

“What if we don’t want to suddenly decide to trust the people who have been fighting us and keeping our people prisoner since we resurfaced?” one of the soldiers asks, chin jutting out dangerously. 

“Then fuck, go die by yourself!” Baekhyun says. “What do you have left? Your pride and some shitty land that’ll be frozen in a couple months? And even if you last this winter, do you want to go through all of this again next year? Fighting and fighting and just barely scraping by? Just barely surviving? You want to be stuck in that rut forever?”

“If we as a people—as the human race—ever want to move forward again, we’re going to have to collaborate,” Boa says, nodding her approval. “There will have to be agreements between communities—not just ours, but ours and other communities around us.”

“So you want us just to forget everything that’s ever happened between us?” the same soldier challenges. 

“I want us to _stop fucking fighting_ ,” Baekhyun says. “We have information, they have technology. We have certain skills, they have others. I want us to stop wasting our time at each other’s throats, and instead figure something out so that we can just _live._ ” 

Jongdae cheers in his ear. It’s kind of obnoxious, but it gets other people doing the same thing—it gets other people excited to move on. 

“We’ve still got some shit to figure out,” Kyungsoo says suddenly, stepping up from where he’s been half-hiding behind Chanyeol. “Both of our communities have wronged the other. Baekhyun’s pointed out some faults in your leadership, and I can do the same for ours. Neither of us is blameless in any way.”

There’s a general rumble of agreement, which drowns out the various protests. 

“So we’re not saying we’re going to forget,” Kyungsoo continues. “We’re saying we’re going to try to fix some things. And then we’re going to try to move forward. Right?”

Baekhyun grins. “Right.”

Boa steps forward, reaches out a hand. It’s not offered to Community Leader. It’s offered to Baekhyun. 

“Oh, ma’am, I’m not a leader,” Baekhyun laughs. “I’m just an angry citizen.”

“You seem eager to lead, though,” Boa muses. 

“I’m not.” Baekhyun smiles. “Trust me. I don’t know the first fucking thing about leading. I just get really riled up about stuff.” He pauses, then adds, “And my brain don’t work so good.”

“Then who’s going to be in charge of Q-16’s decisions?” she asks. 

Baekhyun shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. And you guys can figure your stuff out, too. Because I haven’t forgiven you for holding my best friend captive for three months. And I don’t think everyone in X-22 will, either.”

Boa looks disgruntled, then resigned. “You’re not wrong.”

“So there will be no shaking hands today. We’ll give everyone time to, you know, make up their minds about where they stand. We’ll have some meetings. We’ll work some shit out. Hopefully all of this will happen relatively quickly so we can start working on not dying during the winter. Okay?” Baekhyun flashes her a smile. 

Boa chuckles lightly. “Okay.”

She turns away, and Yixing squeezes Baehyun’s waist. “You didn’t stutter once,” he says softly. 

Baekhyun blinks, then beams. “Hell yeah I didn’t.”

Yixing laughs, kisses his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun says, swallowing hard. For the first time in months, he feels good. He feels like he’s worth something, other than just an archive. He feels like he’s _capable_ of something. And that’s really fucking nice. “I’m proud of me, too.”

***

Minseok wakes up in X-22’s infirmary on one of the raised beds, groggy and confused. His limbs feel dead, his head is stuffed with cotton, and his mouth is so dry that he almost chokes the first time he tries to swallow. “Wh—”

“Minseok!”

Minseok closes his eyes, groans low in his throat. His head pounds. Why is he awake? It feels like he hasn’t slept in days, even though he’s pretty sure he just was asleep. God, he feels like shit. “Hmm,” he says vaguely. 

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re awake. Liyin said she wasn’t sure if you’d _ever_ wake up, but they’ve been giving you freaky energy boosts literally night and day since you passed out and they told me I should leave because you might not even wake up for _days_ but I didn’t, I wanted to make sure you were okay, and just. I’m so glad you’re awake.”

Minseok draws a deep breath, fills aching lungs, and cracks his eyes open again. “L’han?”

Luhan’s face stares down at him, eyes wide and earnest. “Yeah, hey. Hi. Good morning. Afternoon.” He laughs awkwardly. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

Minseok blinks heavily, forces himself to pick up one leaden hand to gesture towards his throat. 

“Oh! Water, right, yes. Here, I’ll pour you a cup.”

He does so, sliding a hand under Minseok’s head to tip it up as he holds the rim to his lips. Some of the lukewarm liquid runs down the sides of his mouth, pooling on his chest, but the rest slides down his parched throat and moistens his tongue. He coughs, drinks a little more, coughs again. It helps. 

“What’re you—” He pauses, makes a pitiful sound as his head spins. “What’re you doing here?”

“What?” Luhan looks surprised, then embarrassed. “Oh, I… Um, everyone is busy doing important stuff, and I already gave my statement, so I thought I’d just, uh. Stay, I guess. So that if you woke up...someone would be here…”

Minseok has the feeling that doesn’t exactly match what he said earlier, but he lets it go, too tired to argue. “Where’s…” He frowns, drags out the _s_. “Jongin?”

“Huh? Oh, he’s...he’s over there.” Luhan nods across the room. “He, um, he hasn’t woken up yet. Liyin’s...even more doubtful about him recovering. He. He died, you know. For a little bit. He hasn’t shown any signs of waking up.”

Minseok’s throat closes up, chest tightening. “No,” he says quietly. 

“What?”

Minseok manages to shake his head a little. “Has to wake up. I still have to...nurture him back to mental health.”

Luhan laughs quietly, breathily. “You tell him that, then. Maybe it’ll convince him.”

“Wake up,” Minseok mumbles, letting his eyes flutter closed again. He wants to keep them open—wants to drink in the sight of Luhan smiling down at him—but they won’t listen to him. “R’lly fuckin’ tired,” he slurs. 

“Right, yeah. Yeah. Liyin said your energy levels were like, dangerously low. So. No wonder. You’re still not nearly back to normal.” Minseok feels a warm hand rest on top of his own briefly, then flinch away, before one finger loops around his pinky, tentative but comforting. “Do you want me to go get her?”

Minseok makes a vague noise. He honestly couldn’t care less. He just wants to sleep. But also for Luhan to not leave. “G’nna pass out again,” he says. “Stay.”

“O...okay.” Minseok can hear Luhan’s throat click as he swallows. “Yeah. I’ll stay here.”

Minseok hums his approval, and then promptly falls back asleep. 

 

The next time he wakes up, Luhan is still there, near the wall, and that rogue paranormal pair is hovering over him, pumping him full of energy. He feels kind of buzzed, kind of dizzy and warm and weird. But in a good way. He feels less dead than the first time he woke up. 

The lady sorcerer sits back in her chair, and the warmth starts seeping out of Minseok’s body. “Oh,” he says. “Are you done?”

“He’s awake!” Luhan exclaims. 

Minseok smiles a little, closing his eyes. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” asks Lady Sorcerer. Minseok is positive he knows her name, but right now, his brain doesn’t care to supply it. 

“Mmmm. Alive? Could be better.” 

“At least he’s conscious,” says the boy one. “And aware.”

“True,” says the lady. “Can you tell me your name?”

Minseok snorts. “Minseok.”

“Community name?”

“X-22. Delta,” he adds after a second. “Can’t forget that. Jonginnie doesn’t like it.”

There’s a brief pause, and then the lady says, “Count backwards from ten?”

Minseok does. He recounts, briefly, how he came to be in the infirmary, and the year, and everything else the lady asks him. Apparently he passes her tests, because her voice becomes increasingly less tight and nervous. She gives him another cup of water, and then helps him sit up gingerly against the wall. Minseok still feels fuzzy and disoriented and weak, but he doesn’t feel on the brink of death, so that’s pretty great. 

Blinking heavily, he looks around the room, and sees Jongin in the other bed, white-faced and unnaturally still. His throat closes up. “How is he?” he manages to ask. 

The lady glances at Jongin, then back at Minseok, her mouth pinched at the edges. “He’s...alive,” she says carefully. 

“But?”

She sighs. “We’re doing everything we can, but he hasn’t shown any signs of improvement.”

Minseok feels cold all over. “Don’t bother with me anymore,” he says firmly. “Focus on healing him.”

The lady rubs her hands along her thighs, a troubled motion. “We’re trying.”

“Try harder. He tried to sacrifice his life for you. I expect you to do the same for him.”

“You want me to die for him?” She lifts an eyebrow at him. 

Minseok sighs, rubs his forehead. “You know what I mean.”

The lady pauses, then nods. “I will, Minseok. I understand he means a lot to you, but sometimes, things like this just...can’t be reversed.”

Minseok swallows hard. “Try,” he repeats, and then looks away from her. 

Luhan stands by the wall, meets his gaze. He looks uncertain, scared. “Hey,” he says quietly. 

“You’re still here,” Minseok remarks. 

Luhan’s face goes pink. “Oh, um, yeah. You asked me to stay, so…”

Slowly, Minseok nods, and they both fall silent. Minseok isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Sorry for lying to you for months? No hard feelings? I secretly was hoping you stayed because you like me? Goddamn, Minseok isn’t a _child._

Before he can say anything, though, there’s a knock on the door, and in walk Kyungsoo and Sehun, followed by Yixing and Joonmyun, all looking exhausted to the bone. They honestly look as tired as Minseok feels. He brightens up when he sees them, though, just as they do when they see him awake and sitting up. Sehun sits by Jongin’s bed and threads his fingers with Jongin’s on the bed mat, and Joonmyun stands by his head, but the others crowd around Minseok, getting him updated on the goings-on in their community. 

They’re signing treaties, Kyungsoo tells him, and arranging a new system of leadership—one in which Kyungsoo is one of several advisors, so that one person can’t make all the big decisions. They’re trading information and resources with the people of Q-16, such that all of them will be able to benefit. They’re making apologies and admitting to mistakes, and they’re figuring out how to tackle big problems, bit by bit. It’s a slow process—Minseok’s been unconscious for several days now—but they’re getting somewhere. 

“I’m starting to think this might actually work out,” Kyungsoo says, looking pleased. “Which is something I definitely thought— What’s that?”

Distracted, Minseok follows his point. On the desk between his bed and Jongin’s is a seed the size of a large marble. “Uh. I don’t know.”

“That’s Jonginnie’s Reward,” Yixing says, smiling softly, proudly. “In exchange for his sacrifice.”

“Are you sure?” Kyungsoo asks, looking at it strangely. “Like, one hundred percent?”

Yixing blinks. “Yeah. It was under his body when we took him out of the Valley.”

Kyungsoo stares at it a second longer, then shakes his head. “It’s just. It looks _exactly_ like the seed I gave to Chanyeol when we were kids.”

“What seed?” Joonmyun asks, walking over with a frown. 

“I found a seed once, when I was scavenging with my mom. In some old clothes. I gave it to Chanyeol during the first resurfacing, when Q-16 and X-22 were still allies.” He pauses, looks around. “That’s where his plant came from. You know, that one he loves so much.”

Joonmyun, Yixing, and the two rogue paranormals stare at Kyungsoo like he just told them the secrets of the universe, eyes wide and shocked. “Oh my god,” Yixing breathes. 

“What?” Kyungsoo asks, confused. 

“Oh,” Minseok says, as something clicks into place in his brain. Jongin’s Reward. Seed. Seventeen years ago. “Chanyeol’s plant is Jongin’s parents.”

 _“What?_ ” 

Yixing laughs, a slightly hysterical sound. “Jongin’s parents died to save him when he was a baby. But he never got his Reward from them. It should have been his, but he never got it. He assumed there was none—that his parents didn’t mean to die, that he essentially killed them. But there was. It was just lost in the retreat back underground. And you found it. And gave it to Chanyeol. And he grew it.”

“I _knew_ that plant was ridiculously strong,” says the lady sorcerer—Minseok _still_ can’t remember her name, and no one’s saying it. “Joon and Xing used it to boost Baekhyun’s memory, _and_ we used it to restart Jongin’s heart after he drained it. And honestly, that thing should have died from neglect a long time ago.”

Minseok feels a grin spread across his face. “Hear that, Nini?” he says loudly. “Your parents saved you _twice_. Wake up, you have to meet them formally.”

Jongin doesn’t respond, but Minseok feels happy and warm anyway. 

“He’s going to be so fucking happy when he wakes up,” Joonmyun mutters, and Minseok agrees. 

 

People come and go for the rest of the day. Minseok’s family comes in, and Seulgi yells at him for scaring her half to death. Yejoo sits in his lap and asks when Jongin is going to wake up so she can play with him. He tells her he’ll wake up soon, and to try kissing him to see if that’ll work. It doesn’t, but he thinks Jongin’s unconscious mind appreciates it anyway. Some of his fellow Builders come through, rowdy and lively, and they exhaust Minseok, but he appreciates them not treating him like he’s about to die. 

As it is, he wanes slowly as the day drags on, and then feels better again after he’s slept for a while. Yixing and Joonmyun come by to take their turn feeding healing energy into Jongin’s body, but Minseok receives nothing, as per his wishes. He eats as much as he can stomach—which isn’t a lot, but he makes do—and drinks a lot of water, and hopes that’ll be enough. He continues feeling weak and achy and tired, but when he looks across the room and sees Jongin’s still, ashy face, he barely even notices. 

Kyungsoo keeps him updated on negotiations and the tensions that continue to exist between the two communities. Minseok thinks that’s only natural, as much as it seems to rankle Kyungsoo. They’ve been fighting for so long, it’d be bizarre if they suddenly just started trusting each other completely. They’ve spent months hating each other viciously. That doesn’t go away overnight. 

Still, things are looking hopeful. 

The following morning, all of the Q-16 boys from their World-Saving Group come in to see him and check on Jongin. They barely know each other, but it’s nice anyway, talking to them amiably, looking past their differences. Minseok likes them. They seem like good guys. 

Luhan hangs near the back of the group, saying very little, barely even looking at Minseok. He hasn’t come in since the second time Minseok woke up. When the others leave, though, Luhan stays, looking uncomfortable as he lingers near the door. 

“Did you have something to say?” Minseok asks him at last, tired of watching him squirm. He used to enjoy that—Luhan’s discomfort. Not anymore. Not now that he knows why he was here, what he was doing. 

Luhan chews on his lip. “Oh, uh...no. Just. How are you feeling?”

Minseok snorts. “Fine,” he says—slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “How are you, Luhan?”

Luhan smiles, crooked and awkward. “I’m...okay.”

“I should be getting my breakfast soon,” Minseok says. “Do you want to hang around?”

“Oh! Um. Yeah. Sure.” Luhan walks to the chair next to Minseok’s bed carefully, like he’s ready to bolt at any second. He perches right on the edge. “So…”

“So,” Minseok agrees. God, the tension between them is awful. Not that there ever _wasn’t_ tension between them, of some sort. But he liked the old kind much better. 

“I guess I’ll be going back to Q-16 soon,” Luhan blurts, the words too fast to be casual. “I mean. Since we’re just staying here while some things get straightened out. Like, uh. Who’s going to be living where. And stuff like that.”

Minseok stares at him, then says, “I guess so.”

“Yeah. So I guess you won’t have to suffer through living with me anymore.” Luhan laughs nervously. 

Minseok frowns. “I was never suffering, living with you.”

Luhan blinks at him, and his throat bobs. 

“It was kind of nice.” Minseok feels his skin go hot and tight at the admission. “I liked it.”

Luhan’s cheeks pink, and his eyes dart away. “You won’t have to share a room with me now, though.”

“I liked that, too,” Minseok tells him. 

Luhan coughs, pulls the collar of his shirt away from his throat. “Well,” he says, and that’s it. 

Minseok looks away from him, sighs. He doesn’t really expect Luhan to believe him. He spent his entire time living with Luhan lying to him, just to fluster him. Why would Luhan think he’d change now? 

“So this is Jongin’s Reward thing, huh?” Luhan says suddenly, reaching out to touch the seed on their table.

“Oh, yeah.” Minseok shrugs. “I guess it’ll turn out like Chanyeol’s plant.”

“What about you?” Luhan asks. 

“What?”

“Did you get a Reward? You worked just as hard as he did.”

Minseok quirks a smile, staring down at the loose thread in his blanket that he’s been picking at. “I didn’t die,” he says with a shrug. “So I guess I don’t get a Reward. All that work for nothing, huh. No recognition for the living. Not even a little plant. Turns out people aren’t all that impressed if you don’t—” _literally die for them_ , he means to say, but oh, there are lips. Against his lips. 

Luhan is kissing him. 

“Uh,” Minseok says, blinking as Luhan pulls away, looking mortified. “Was that supposed to make me feel better? Was that my reward?”

Luhan laughs, looking everywhere but at him. “No, I don’t think so.”

Minseok swallows thickly. “What was it, then?”

Luhan shrugs, staring at his hands in his lap. “I don’t know. I guess I’m kind of in love with you, or something.”

Minseok chokes. “What?”

“Haha, yeah. Go figure.” Luhan’s ears go red at the tips, and his flush spreads down his neck. His eyes flick up to Minseok, then quickly away. 

“But I—I lied to you! A fucking lot!” Minseok protests. 

Luhan smiles wryly. “I lied to you, too.”

“You were just trying to save Chanyeol,” Minseok argues. 

“You were just trying to protect your community. It makes sense. I mean, I was pissed, but...I can’t blame you. You didn’t know.” Luhan shrugs. 

Minseok shakes his head. “I’m also magic. And I didn’t tell you. And literally your entire community is anti-paranormal.”

Luhan laughs lightly. “Minseok, you just saved possibly the whole goddamn planet. I’m okay with it.”

Minseok feels stunned—almost dizzy with it. Is this what Luhan felt like when Minseok kissed him, that first time? He suddenly feels very sorry about that, if so. 

When he doesn’t respond, Luhan sighs. “Look, if this is you...rejecting me, or whatever, I can deal. I’ll just, you know, disappear forever and stuff.”

“No,” Minseok says quickly, too loudly. Luhan looks up at him so sharply that Minseok thinks he hears his neck crack. “It’s not,” he adds, just to see Luhan’s eyes widen. 

“No?” Luhan squeaks. 

Minseok grins. “I’m just not sure, all of a sudden, if I should regret kissing you those times or not.”

Luhan lets out a bark of laughter, then looks shy. “I figured it was your turn for a surprise attack.”

“Yeah,” Minseok says, laughing. “Does every kiss have to be a surprise, though? Or are some allowed to be mutual?”

Luhan swallows visibly, and his shoulders hunch, and oh, Minseok _does_ still like flustering him. But only in this context. 

“C’mon,” Minseok says, jerking his head slightly. “You’re gonna have to do all the heavy lifting for a while here. I am an invalid.” He smirks. “And Jongin always tells me physical touch is healing.”

Luhan shivers, laughs nervously. “He says that?”

“Yeah. Maybe we should figure out how true it is.” Minseok lifts his arms entreatingly, lets his voice drop. “Heal me, Luhan.”

Luhan makes a face, but Minseok doesn’t miss the way he shifts the hem of his shirt to cover his lap. Either way, he’s leaning in a second later to kiss Minseok with unnecessary force, pressing their mouths together with a sense of fervour that sets Minseok’s heart pounding. Minseok grins against his lips, satisfied, and curls a hand in Luhan’s hair to drag him in closer. 

“I also kind of hate you,” Luhan gasps, shoving his face too hard against Minseok’s as he overbalances and tips halfway onto his bed. 

Minseok laughs, drags his teeth across Luhan’s lower lip. God, he’s wanted this for so long. Longer than he’s even allowed himself to think about it. “So much push and pull so early on in our relationship.”

Luhan makes a quiet, whining sound against his mouth, and Minseok promises himself that he’ll draw that sound out of him many, many times in the future. Luhan gasps softly, and then he curls a hand around the back of Minseok’s neck and tilts his head to fit their mouths together, and oh, now _Minseok_ is making sounds against his will. He can feel Luhan’s gratified grin against his lips, and Minseok would try to retaliate, but now Luhan is dipping his tongue into his mouth, and oh, no, no, Minseok doesn’t want to interrupt that. He leans back against the wall and holds Luhan against him, groaning, considering the pros and cons of being kissed into a coma.

“Gross,” says Sehun, walking into the room with a breakfast tray in his hands.

Luhan yelps, and Minseok grins and holds him firmly in place, kissing him hard. 

“I’m just going to leave this here.” Sehun sets the tray on the table and walks straight back out the door. A second later, he calls back, “I’m not surprised though!”

Minseok kisses the breath from Luhan’s lungs, pouring every ounce of passion in his body into it, and then pulls away with a broad smile, leaving Luhan staring at him with wide eyes and a red mouth. “To be fair,” Minseok says, “I’m not all that surprised either.”

“That you like me or that someone walked in on us making out?” Luhan pants, one hand over his heart. 

Minseok laughs. “Both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go! \o/
> 
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	23. Chapter 23

Jongin wakes up five days after locking away the plague. 

It’s a shock that he wakes up at all, really. He honestly just...didn’t expect to. As he surfaces into consciousness ( _like coming out of an underground bunker after a hundred years_ , his sluggish brain supplies), he mostly just feels surprised. Where will he find himself when he opens his eyes? Heaven?

But no, he’s still in X-22, confused and very, very tired. And there are a lot of people crying. Even Minseok is crying. Jongin kind of likes that, actually, but he won’t say so. He doesn’t say anything at all. Too tired. 

He doesn’t want to fall back asleep, but he does, and then he wakes up, falls asleep, wakes up again. It happens a bunch of times. He never really knows what’s going on, except that he’s alive and a lot of people are really happy. They talk to him, but he only ever half-registers what they say. He tries his best to answer when he can tell they’re asking questions, but it doesn’t go that well. Sometimes he feels energy flowing into him, and it soothes him, usually makes him sleepy and warm. He sleeps a lot. 

Slowly, things start to make more sense. He’s able to listen and respond more. He passes some of Liyin’s tests. He stays awake for longer. 

Yixing tells him about Chanyeol’s plant, and brings it in for him—his parents’ Reward. Now it’s Jongin’s turn to cry, and cry, and cry. He holds it in weak arms, and his tears hit the soil. He feels his mother’s soul in its stalk. It feels like an old friend. Comforting, warm, familiar. He’s so grateful. 

Sehun is at his bedside a lot. Minseok is eventually able to move out of the infirmary, but there’s almost always somebody around when Jongin wakes up, and it’s usually Sehun. He holds Jongin’s hand, tells him about how busy Kyungsoo is, all the good things that are happening because of Jongin. Or at least, that’s how Sehun paints it. Jongin doesn’t think he did all that much, apart from take the plague out of the equation. Which is no tiny thing, he can admit, but it’s not like it suddenly fixed _everything_. 

Regardless, the important thing is that he has _people_. Jongin has people, finally, again. He wakes up and someone’s there. People who know him, people who care for him. People who love him. People who ask him how he’s feeling, and who want to hear his answer. People who stick around to comfort him even when he’s asleep, people who ask him what he needs even after he tells them that he’s okay. 

“Did you know,” he tells Sehun, when he’s finally capable of carrying a real conversation again and staying awake long enough to finish it. “Did you know you’ve saved me twice now?”

Sehun frowns at him, in the middle of smoothing out his blanket for him. “When did I ever?”

“Ah, the. You know. When Joon and Xing were taken. I would have died.” Jongin swallows thickly. “I think I would have died if I didn’t have a friend.”

He’s serious, and he thinks Sehun knows that. “I didn’t do that to save you, though,” he says, chewing on his lip. “I did that because _I_ wanted a friend.”

Jongin grins crookedly. “You picked a weird one.”

“I picked the best one,” Sehun corrects him, and that’s it, going back to his smoothing. 

Jongin smiles to himself and lets his head fall back on his pillow. 

After a few minutes, Sehun says, “What was the second time?”

“Huh?” Jongin jerks out of a half-doze. 

“You said I saved you twice. What was the second one?” Sehun asks. 

“Ah.” Jongin smiles. “Well, you know. I was dead once. I’m sure you had some part in bringing me back to life.”

Sehun snorts softly. “Yeah right. I didn’t do anything. That was all the other paranormals.”

Jongin shakes his head. “You’ve been around a lot. And touch is healing, you know. You helped just by being here.” He pauses, then says, “Sehun. You’ve helped me a lot just by being there.”

Sehun swallows visibly and smiles. “You’ve helped me a lot just by being there, too,” he says. Then, “Also, you’ve literally saved my life a couple times. So. There’s that.”

Jongin chuckles softly, letting his tired eyes fall shut. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Thanks for being my friend. I didn’t get to say that before I tried to take on the plague and...that was shitty of me. I should have said it. Just in case.”

He doesn’t open his eyes again, but he hears Sehun sniff softly. “Well, it’s okay now. Since you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry I almost died,” Jongin says, even quieter. “I didn’t want to.”

“I know,” Sehun says. “It’s okay.”

“Now it is,” Jongin agrees. 

Sehun curls his fingers around Jongin’s hand, squeezes it tight, and stays there until Jongin falls asleep again. 

When he wakes up, Sehun is gone, but Minseok is there. He stops by pretty often, too, though not usually for really long periods of time. He’s not completely healed, either, but he’s doing better than Jongin. He smiles a lot, ruffles Jongin’s hair. He talks about Luhan. He looks happy.

Today, he seems to be napping until Jongin wakes up. “Oh, hey,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Rise and shine, baby bear.”

Jongin smiles. “What time of the day is it?”

“Late afternoon,” Minseok tells him with a grin. “I came in an hour ago, but you were sleeping, and I thought, damn, that’s not a bad idea. So. Here I am.”

“You could have gone home,” Jongin says with a chuckle. “Isn’t that where Luhan would be?”

“Nah, he’s working,” Minseok says. “Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Jongin’s stomach squirms pleasantly, and not just because he’s starving and he can smell food being prepared. 

“So,” Minseok says, and Jongin can tell he’s forcing the casualness. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Jongin tries to sit up a little, intrigued. His body is still weak, but it’s getting stronger every day. (Baekhyun keeps complaining about how jealous he is.) 

“Yeah. Here.” From his pocket, Minseok pulls a string of beads, all small pebbles with holes drilled into their centers. He clears his throat. “It’s a—”

“Partner’s Necklace?” Jongin breathes, gaping. “Really?”

Immediately, Minseok breaks out in a smile. Jongin’s ability to sense energy has been significantly weaker since his short stint with death, but that’s getting better every day, too, and he can feel the spike of warmth in Minseok’s acutely. “Yeah. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about these. Joonmyun said they’re traditional.”

“They are,” Jongin chokes, suddenly overwhelmed. “I didn’t think you’d want one.”

Minseok snorts, reaching out to tap his shoulder gently with one fist. He’s been incredibly careful since Jongin woke up. “Of course I do, idiot. We’re partners, aren’t we? For life, and all that.” He pauses, then says, “Also, just so you know, we tend to use the word _partners_ for like...serious romantic couples in X-22. I don’t know if you knew that. But that is not what I’m referring to right now. Please correct people in the future if and when they misunderstand you when you refer to me as that. It’s gonna get real weird, real quick.”

Jongin laughs, blinking back tears. “Is that why you thought we had to get married, back in the beginning?”

Minseok grins. “Yeah. That was part of it.”

“Oh, god. That’s embarrassing.” Jongin wipes his eyes clumsily. “Are you really giving this to me?”

“Yeah, Nini,” Minseok says, and his eyes are fond. “Here, lean forwards a bit, I’ll put it on you.”

Jongin bows his head, and Minseok loops the string of beads around his neck. 

“This means we’re connected, right?” Minseok says, ruffling his hair gently. “No take-backs. We’re stuck with each other.”

Jongin grins. “Yeah. I mean, it’s mainly a symbolic thing, but. We’re partners now. Officially.”

Minseok makes a face. “Yeah, that sounds weird. Luhan might get jealous if he hears you say that.”

Jongin just laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I guess I will.” Minseok smiles, pats his arm on the bed. “Couldn’t have chosen a better platonic magical soulmate, bud. What you’ve done is pretty damn amazing.”

Jongin has to blink back tears again, clearing his throat. “I’ll make you a necklace soon, too,” he says, voice coming out hoarse. “As soon as I’m better.”

“You focus on recovering first,” Minseok says with a nod. “As long as you don’t go around sacrificing yourself for the good of humanity again anytime soon, we should have years ahead of us.”

“Yeah,” Jongin says, smiling so wide his face hurts. 

Things are still hard. Things are still complicated. But for once, Jongin thinks, he’s looking forward to the future.

***

Things are pretty wild after the whole...plague thing. Everyone’s arguing and negotiating and trying to figure things out, and everyone’s crazy busy, and all of X-22 is in a state of perpetual chaos, and Baekhyun just...wants to chill. Tons of people are asking his opinion about things every day, because Baekhyun has a big mouth and couldn’t shut up one time, but he’s done now. He meant it when he said he didn’t want to lead. He was happy to play his part in exposing the truth to everyone and helping to save the world, but now that that’s over, he doesn’t want much part in it. He just wants to heal and recover and go home. 

He spends as much time as possible in the room he currently shares with Joonmyun and Yixing and Jongdae—the paranormal pair’s original room in X-22, now a little crowded with four people—and makes several daily treks to the infirmary for physio and checkups, stretching his legs and relearning how to walk step by step. He likes it in their little room, surrounded by the people he cares about. He gets to see Chanyeol and Yifan regularly, too, and that’s all that really matters to him. That he gets to see his friends. 

And Yixing, of course. Yixing is with him as often as he can be, whenever he’s not working with Joonmyun, healing Jongin or doing other paranormal work. He joins him at mealtimes, helps him with his walking. Yixing is wonderful, as always. And he doesn’t leave, even now that he’s home, and Baekhyun is the one who’s just visiting. 

He _is_ just visiting...right? X-22 isn’t his home. He’s going to be returning to Q-16, when the time comes. 

Every night, he falls asleep wondering what that will mean to Yixing. Joonmyun once asked what would happen when they were done healing Baekhyun, but he never considered a situation like _this_. And that was before. Things have changed since then. 

He never dares himself to bring it up, too scared of Yixing’s answer. 

Jongdae, on the other hand, has no such qualms about the future. “So,” he says one evening, while Yixing is helping Baekhyun do his stretches against the wall. “How do I get Joonmyun to like me?”

Yixing snickers softly. “I mean, you could stop harassing him literally always.”

Jongdae sighs loftily. “But that’s how I show my love.”

“That’s true,” Baekhyun agrees, carefully stretching his calves. “That _is_ how he shows his love.”

“Well, I don’t think Joonmyun is all that keen on that particular method of showing affection,” Yixing says, smiling indulgently. “Maybe you should try something else?”

“No, no, I think this’ll work eventually,” Jongdae says, as if there _is_ an eventually. As if he’ll be seeing Joonmyun a lot in the future. 

“So far, it mostly just seems like he wants to kill you,” Yixing says pleasantly. “And he’s a pacifist.”

Jongdae snorts. “Come on Yixing, fess up. How do I go about wooing my one true love, Joonmyun? You know him best.”

Yixing hums, holding onto Baekhyun’s elbow as he holds onto his foot behind him to stretch his quads. “Well, I mean, first you’d have to convince him to accept your courting gifts.”

Jongdae blinks at him. “My what?”

Baekhyun turns as well. “What?”

Yixing blinks at both of them. “What?”

“What does he have to accept?” Jongdae repeats. 

“The...courting gifts.” Yixing looks between them in confusion. “You know, the gifts you give to the person you’re interested in, to signal your interest?”

Jongdae raises both eyebrows quizzically. Baekhyun gapes, cold realization rushing through him. 

“Why do you look so surprised?” Yixing asks. “You guys have the same thing, don’t you? Every group I’ve ever been a part of has had courting rituals. Otherwise, how do you know their intentions?”

Baekhyun splutters. “They—they tell you!” 

Yixing blinks at him. “You— Oh my god. You don’t have these? The whole, you know, stages of courting, with the steps and the different gifts and… But every group I know of has a strict courting ritual!”

Baekhyun shakes his head slowly, beginning to tremble. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Baek, you have to,” Yixing says, and he sounds a little desperate. “First is a wearable gift, to signal interest, and then an edible gift, to symbolize wanting to provide, and then something of importance, and then a sacrifice…you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Numbly, Baekhyun shakes his head. 

“Uhhh,” Jongdae says. “I think I’m just gonna...go.”

He disappears, and Baekhyun doesn’t look away from Yixing’s earnest face. “I thought you knew,” Yixing says, swallowing visibly. “You didn’t know I was courting you?”

“No,” Baekhyun whispers, turning to him fully at last. In an instant, Yixing catches his hands. 

“Baekhyun, I mean it, I _really_ thought you were completely aware of what was going on.” He holds onto Baekhyun tightly, eyes wide. 

Baekhyun shakes his head, not sure whether he should be laughing or crying. “Yeah. I totally did not know.”

“It just...it didn’t even hit me that you might not know what I was doing. Why did you think I was suddenly giving you stuff? For fun?” Yixing asks, looking flustered and overwhelmed. 

“I don’t know! You’re kind of strange!” Baekhyun counters. “Why would I jump to the...conclusion that you were _courting me?_ ” 

“Because I obviously liked you!” Yixing protests. He stops, takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t yell at you. I think this is my fault.”

Baekhyun does laugh a little, now, though it comes out shaky. “I mean, I’m not doubting that you didn’t know that I...didn’t know.”

“I really didn’t,” Yixing assures him again, like he just wants to make sure. “I swear.”

“I know. But like, did I even give the appropriate responses? I was such an ass about the food! God.” Baekhyun rubs one hand over his face, feeling unstable. 

“It’s not _that_ uncommon for someone to reject one or two courtship advances before accepting,” Yixing mutters. “I felt kind of shitty but I just, you know, tried again.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” Baekhyun groans. “However, several things make a lot more sense now. Which I ignored before this because I didn’t want to confuse things and also _everything_ you do confuses me.”

“Yeah, well, now I guess you won’t be so confused,” Yixing says embarrassedly, shrugging. 

“No, I’m still confused. Like? Why did you start courting me in the first place?” Baekhyun shakes his head. “Me, the broken, dumb one. That’s questionable.”

“You’re not broken or dumb, Baek,” Yixing says immediately, squeezing his hand. “You are...so strong. And so amazing, and inspiring, and brave, and _good_. And I just...I like you a lot. A _lot_ a lot. Even despite the circumstances, and despite Joonmyun’s _many_ warnings. So I did what I was brought up to do. I started courting you.”

Baekhyun sighs, feeling warm but also all mixed up inside. “Well, I mean,” he says, swallowing thickly. “I guess we’re magical married now anyway.”

A smile tugs at Yixing’s lips. “That’s not how it works, Baek,” he says, voice fond. “Also, we skipped steps. Even if you _were_ aware of what was going on, it would have been really unofficial. We did the whole thing wrong.”

Baekhyun sways on his feet, holds onto Yixing’s arm. “Don’t jinx it,” he says. “You might bail if you’re not tied down.” _And I kind of want to keep you_ , he adds in his head. 

Yixing smiles more openly. “That’s not going to happen.”

“It might!” Baekhyun protests. “You might realize I am a total mess!”

Yixing’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “I am fully aware of _all_ of your faults, Baekhyun.”

Baekhyun lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, I’m as confused as you are.”

“I’m not confused,” Yixing tells him, voice firm. 

Baekhyun chews on his lip. “I am.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, and then Yixing says, “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to, Baek. I mean it. I chose you, _willingly_ , because I think you’re an incredible person, and because I...I’m happy when I’m with you, and my heart pounds a little when you smile at me. And I want to make you happy. And I want you in my life.”

Baekhyun’s voice gets stuck in his throat, and he has to clear it before he can croak, “You are quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

A brilliant smile lights up Yixing’s face, his cheek dimpling in that way Baekhyun loves. “Then I guess I’ll have to talk to your parents, huh?”

“What? No, don’t!” Baekhyun objects, eyes wide. “Why would you do that?”

“We completely skipped those parts of the courting process,” Yixing laughs. “It’s terrible luck, for one thing. And it’s traditional.”

“Not here it isn’t!” Baekhyun insists. “Run away with me.”

Yixing smiles. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah.” Baekhyun deflates. “Please don’t try to talk to my father. My mom….maybe. But I don’t know how she feels about paranormals yet.”

That pulls a sigh out of Yixing. “Yeah. We still have some, er, inter-community conflicts we might have to resolve. That is...if you’re really interested. In this being a long-term thing.” He looks at Baekhyun hopefully. 

Baekhyun grins, pulls him in to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Yixing’s lips are soft, warm, relenting, and he sighs, loops his arms around Baekhyun’s waist like he knows Baekhyun is feeling unsteady. “Like I’d give you up just because we almost accidentally got magical married,” Baekhyun murmurs, sliding his own arms around Yixing’s neck, slipping his hand under the collar of his shirt to press into warm skin. 

“That’s not what was happening,” Yixing says on a laugh, shivering, pressing closer. Baekhyun is cross-eyed, staring at his mouth, itching to bite it. He still gets flustered, every time they kiss; still can hardly believe it’s something he’s allowed to do, something Yixing _wants_ him to do. But god, he’s not going to argue about that.

“Close enough,” he says, and kisses him again. 

 

It’s only later that Yixing says, face earnest, (mouth red), “Don’t be with me just because you think I saved your life.”

Baekhyun almost laughs, but he can tell Yixing is serious. “I’m not going to. I mean, it gives you bonus points, but...you did a lot more for me than just heal me physically, Yixing.”

Yixing nods slowly, then adds, “And don’t think I courted you because you were the Community Leader’s son and I thought maybe he wouldn’t kill us if you liked me enough.”

Baekhyun gapes. “Is that something I should be worried about? Shit, I never even _thought_ about that. Oh my god. Is that why you courted me?”

Yixing gives him a soft smile. “I won’t pretend it didn’t have anything to do with the way I treated you, back at the start. But Baek, trust me. That’s not the only reason. And by the end, that wasn’t a reason at all.”

“I would have fallen for it, too,” Baekhyun mutters, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Baek, please.” Yixing holds tight to his hands, eyes wide. “That’s not why— I wouldn’t still be here, if that was the only reason I courted you. You know that, right? I’m not pretending. I was _never_ pretending.”

Baekhyun breathes out a long, overwhelmed breath. “I did mean it,” he says at last. “You did...a lot for me. I don’t know what I would have done without you, even ignoring the whole physical healing process. The...the _least_ I can do to make it up to you is give you a real chance. Right?”

Yixing smiles, broad and bright, and Baekhyun’s heart beats solidly against the same damn ribs that brought them together in the first place. He can’t find it in himself to regret it. 

“We still have some things to discuss,” Baekhyun forces himself to say, before he can get distracted by Yixing’s mouth again. “And to clear up. Like, big things. About the future. _Our_ future.”

“Of course,” Yixing says, nodding, but he’s already swaying closer. 

“But for now, let’s just celebrate that we’ll have one,” Baekhyun says. “A future.”

Yixing grins. “Yes. Let’s.”

***

Ever since the plague incident, Kyungsoo has been busier than he ever thought was possible. As if punishing him for wanting to get involved, Boa insists that he’s present for every meeting, every treaty signing, every agreement write-up. He goes with on trips to decide upon community limits and what land is shared. He helps to decide what trades are fair and how they’ll divide up resources, especially considering that Q-16 has a slightly larger population. Kyungsoo argues, lobbies, and does his best to break up fights. He stands his ground and refuses to give in when he thinks a request is unfair. He lets go of his pride and backs down sometimes. 

And in the meantime, he tries to spend some of his extremely limited free time with Sehun and Jongin, he tries to repair his friendship with Seulgi, he tries to find time to eat and sleep, and the world keeps spinning around him. 

After nine days of non-stop negotiations, at last, all of the big issues have been squared away. The sun is setting as Kyungsoo walks back to his house after seeing the last contract signed, setting the earth ablaze with golds and reds. He’s tired, weary, but content. Things are going to continue to be difficult, maybe for years to come, but he feels like they’ll be better, at the very least. There will be progress. 

He’s twenty feet from his front door—his bed is calling to him—when a familiar figure materializes out of the shadows, walking towards him. Kyungsoo stops, surprised. 

Chanyeol stares at him, looking equally caught off-guard. “Oh. Kyungsoo. I—I’m just on my way back from the storehouse.”

Kyungsoo nods mutely. In the past week and a half, the most Kyungsoo has seen of Chanyeol is catching glimpses of him from a distance. Chanyeol hasn’t been involved—and hasn’t wanted to be involved—with the negotiation process between the two communities at all. Instead, he’s been doing what he’s best at; fixing things, working with the machines, building and creating. He’s been sharing some knowledge with X-22’s Menders, making sure the Machine is ready for use, working with Baekhyun to figure out how an irrigation system might work, making trips out to their old bunkers to salvage tubing and piping. He’s been busy, too. Just not in Kyungsoo’s general vicinity. 

Not that Kyungsoo has sought him out at all in the meantime. 

“So,” Chanyeol says, clearing his throat. “I guess...everyone’ll be deciding where they’re going to be living, now.”

Kyungsoo hums vaguely in agreement, looking up at Chanyeol’s face, drinking in the sight of him. He’s been eating better this past week, sleeping on real beds, getting enough rest. He looks a lot better than he did when Kyungsoo first broke him out of prison. Better than Kyungsoo has seen him in three months. 

Chanyeol kicks at the ground in front of him, uncomfortable. “I have the feeling Luhan’s gonna be staying here,” he says. He lifts his eyes, looks at Kyungsoo. “But I think both Baekhyun and Yifan will be going back to Q-16.”

Kyungsoo nods. He had kind of figured the same. 

Chanyeol hesitates, brows furrowing uncertainly in the low light, and then says, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Kyungsoo has to swallow hard before he can say, “I’m really glad you’ll be able to be with your friends again.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says, but he looks pained. “I’m...it’s been really nice, seeing them and spending time with them again. Really, really nice.”

Kyungsoo nods, pushing his chilly hands into his pockets. 

“So...I guess I’ll be going back to Q-16, too,” Chanyeol says quietly. 

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo says. He ignores the way his chest aches at the thought. He pushes it down, refuses to even acknowledge it. He doesn’t deserve that. 

Chanyeol’s jaw clenches, and his throat bobs. “Yeah,” he rasps. “That’s...do you…” He sighs, shakes his head. “You look tired.”

“Busy day,” Kyungsoo says, frowning when his voice comes out all uneven. “You should go to bed, too.”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol sways, then shuffles his feet. “I guess...we’ll leave in the morning.”

“I guess so.” Kyungsoo doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off of him. 

“So...I guess I’ll go.”

Kyungsoo nods, holds his breath as Chanyeol takes a step to move around him, falters, then keeps walking. Kyungsoo closes his eyes. 

Then, abruptly, “Tell me you want me to stay.”

Kyungsoo turns, looks at Chanyeol with wide eyes. “What?”

Chanyeol looks absolutely torn, his eyes alight with agony. “Tell me you want me to stay here. With you.”

Kyungsoo’s heart breaks for him. “Chanyeol,” he croaks. “Go home.”

Chanyeol falls back a step, like Kyungsoo’s words were a punch to his stomach. “What?”

“Go home. Go be with your friends, and your family. Spend time by yourself. Spend time _recovering._ Think about yourself, what you need. Forget about all of this.” Kyungsoo waves his hand towards his house, the fields beyond it, Chanyeol’s old prison. 

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says brokenly. “Don’t you— Do you hate me?”

“Of course I don’t, Yeol.” Kyungsoo feels his face crumple. “How could I? But I—I was your guard for months. You’re attached to me, but honestly, that’s not healthy. You need to get away from here for a while. _I_ need you to get away from here for a while.” It’s the truth, but god, Kyungsoo hates the look on Chanyeol’s face. 

“Soo, no, that’s not why I—”

“I care about you a lot,” Kyungsoo interrupts, heart pounding. “I...I care about you too much, maybe. And I really, honest-to-god like you, more than I’m probably even willing to admit to myself. I think about you...constantly, and I worry about you, and I want to see you. And it’s messed up, Chanyeol. Our relationship is messed up.”

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says, pleadingly—Kyungsoo doesn’t know if he wants him to go on or to stop. 

“I want you to go home. I want things to...go back to normal, as much as they can. Winter is on it’s way, and we’re going to be busy, and maybe...you’ll forget about me. And honestly, that would probably be good for you. I don’t want you to come back here, and see me, and think about me. I want you to get your life back.”

Chanyeol stares at him, silent, and Kyungsoo thinks he sees wetness in his eyes, reflecting the light of the setting sun. 

Kyungsoo sighs, hunches his shoulders. “I don’t know, Chanyeol. I just...want to figure some things out. And I want you to be able to figure things out, too, without me confusing you. Do you know what I mean?”

Haltingly, Chanyeol nods, even though it looks like it pains him to do so. 

A small smile pulls at Kyungsoo’s lips, sad but real. He takes a step forward, hesitates, then takes another. He curls his fingers in the front of Chanyeol’s shirt, lifts onto his toes, and presses his lips softly to the corner of Chanyeol’s, warm and lingering. Chanyeol inhales sharply, doesn’t move. 

“We’ll see each other again,” Kyungsoo whispers, drawing back. “And maybe by then everything will be obvious. And it’ll just make sense.”

Chanyeol presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut, and nods. 

“I’ll see you later, then,” Kyungsoo says softly, taking a step back, towards his house. His hands itch to reach out to him, touch him one last time, but he keeps them to himself. “Bye.”

Chanyeol lets out a shuddering breath. “Bye,” he whispers. 

Kyungsoo smiles, takes one last second to memorize his face, and then turns around.

***

On a rare warm, sunny day in fall, Jongin walks out into the newly-plowed and tilled field that used to be the Dead Zone—not so dead after all, under layers of hard-packed earth and rocks—with his parents’ Reward and his own in either hand. Sehun follows him, carrying a trowel, and more people follow, carrying smooth, fist-sized stones. 

Carefully, Jongin kneels in the dirt, and Sehun hands him the trowel. With steady hands, Jongin digs two holes, four feet apart. In the first, he places his seed, small and round and unassuming. In the other, he sets the roots of his parents’ plant in a bed of soil. He covers them both, patting down the dirt with his palms, forming their new homes with his hands. Then, one at a time, people bring him their stones to build a circle around each of them—a shrine to new life. 

In the line behind him, Yixing hands him a stone, smiling and squeezing his shoulder, and then Baekhyun, and then Joonmyun, and Jongdae. Boa hands him a stone, and so does Liyin, one of the new voices of authority in Q-16. Carved into the bottom of each stone is a wish, a promise, a dream. Jongin doesn’t read them, but he can imagine what they say. Peace, life, cooperation, strength. Healing. 

That’s what Jongin wants to promote, by planting his Rewards here. That’s what he wants to encourage. Healing, and life, and a future for both communities, moving forwards together. He wants people to see, right in front of their eyes, in a very tangible way, what Jongin can feel in his bones. That pain and cruelty and death are very real things—they used to reign in this very place—but they don’t have to win. That the earth, for all of its failings, for all of the terrible things that happen on its surface (as well as below it), still nurtures life. 

That even when things seem bleak, and hopeless, and impossible to get through, good things remain, and good people can do great things. 

That terrible things can result in suffering, but they can also bring people together, and they can start change for the better. They can bring about rebuilding, and regrowth. 

To the world at large, maybe, they’re just plants in the ground. But for Jongin—and for other people, too, he knows—they’re a lot more than that. They’re new beginnings. 

They’re hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done!!!!
> 
> First, thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on and loved this fic! It means a lot to me!
> 
> Second, it WAS in the plans to write a short sequel in this fic, which would tie up a couple loose ends. However, I'm going to be on hiatus for the next while (which I talk more about [here](http://allhandson-deck.livejournal.com/54080.html)), so I'm uncertain if that will ever get done, unfortunately. Depending on the reaction this fic gets, it might...? Idk. 
> 
> Thirdly, if you have any questions concerning this fic or the au in general, leave them in a comment below, and I'll answer them as best as I can! 
> 
> And lastly, if you'll miss me, come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jump_this_ship), [tumblr](https://jumpthisship.tumblr.com), and [ask.fm](https://ask.fm/jumpthisship)!


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